A 

A 

0 

0 

1 

LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIEORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.    ALFRED  W.     INGALLS 


Zbc  :iEn0lisb 
ComcMc  Ibumatne 


BARCHESTER 
TOWERS 

BY 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE 


Comebic  Ibumaine 


Masterpieces  of  the  great 
English  novelists  in  which 
are  portrayed  the  varying 
aspects  of  English  life  from 
the  time  of  Addison  to  the 
present  day:  a  series  anal- 
ogous to  that  in  which 
Balzac  depicted  the  man- 
ners and  morals  of  his 
French  contemporaries. 


^■n-H 


Shall  I  begin,  ma'am  ? '  said  Harrv  " 


Ube  Bnglisb  Com^&ie  Ibumaine 


iBARCHESTER 
TOWERS 


BY 


ANTHONY   TROLLOPE 


NEW  YORK 

tTbe  Century  Co. 

1906 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Published  November,  igoz. 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

Among  minor  English  novelists  Anthony  Trollope  occupies 
the  foremost  place.  In  fact,  there  are  few  of  the  greatest  who 
excel  him  in  originality  and  delicacy  of  humor  and  the  faithful 
portrayal  of  character.  His  work  lacks  very  little  of  being  that 
of  genius.  He  was  born  in  1815;  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  the  postal  service,  as  inspector  in  Ireland,  England,  and 
abroad;  and  died  in  1882.  In  1862  he  visited  the  United 
States,  and  on  his  return  published  an  account  of  his  travels 
which  was  of  considerable  service  in  correcting  English  opinions 
on  American  affairs. 

"  Barchester  Towers,"  perhaps  the  best,  certainly  the  most 
delightful,  of  his  novels,  was  published  in  1857.  Its  scene  is 
the  cathedral  town  of  "Barchester"  (suggested  by  Salisbury), 
about  which  cluster  a  number  of  his  most  fascinating  tales.  The 
life  of  this  imaginary  town  —  the  doings  of  its  ecclesiastical  dig- 
nitaries and  of  their  neighbors — Trollope  reveals  with  the  exact- 
ness of  a  local  historian  and  with  inimitable  humor.  "  I  had 
formed  for  myself,"  he  says,  "so  complete  a  picture  of  the 
locality,  had  acquired  so  accurate  a  knowledge  of  the  cathedral 
town  and  the  county  in  which  I  had  placed  the  scene,  and  had 
become  by  a  long-continued  mental  dwelling  in  it  so  intimate 
with  sundry  of  its  inhabitants,  that  to  go  back  to  it  and  write 
about  it  again  and  again  has  become  one  of  the  delights  of  my 
life."  To  peruse  what  he  wrote  is  certainly  one  of  the  delights 
of  the  reader  of  English  fiction.  As  pictures  of  contemporary 
life  Trollope's  works  are  unsurpassed.  They  may,  as  has  been 
truly  said,  "fall  into  temporary  oblivion,  but  when  the  twentieth 
century  desires  to  estimate  the  nineteenth,  they  will  be  disinterred 
and  studied  with  an  attention  accorded  to  no  contemporary  work 
of  the  kind,  except,  perhaps,  George  Eliot's  '  Middlemarch. '  " 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  T->  i  1 

I   Who  Will  be  the  new  Bishop? J 

II   HIRAM'S  Hospital,  according  to  Act  of  Par- 
liament   

i8 

III  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Proudie 

IV  The  Bishop's  Chaplain ^5 

V  A  Morning  Visit 3 

.     .     •  4° 

VI  War 

VII   The  Dean  and  Chapter  take  Counsel  .     .     •  5i 
VIII  The  Ex-Warden  rejoices  in  his  probable  Re- 
turn to  the  Hospital 57 

IX  The  Stanhope  Family 4 

X  Mrs.  Proudie's  Reception  — commenced  .     .     .  77 

XI   Mrs.  Proudie's  Reception  — concluded   ...  87 

xii   Slope  versus  Harding 

XIII  The  Rubbish  Cart ^°7 

XIV  The  New  Champion ^^ 

xv  The  Widow's  Suitors ^^3 

XVI   Baby  Worship ^34 

xvii   Who  shall  be  Cock  of  the  Walk?    ....  146 

xviii   THE  Widow's  Persecution ^53 

XIX  Barchester  by  Moonlight 161 

XX  Mr.  Arabin ^"^^ 

XXI   St.  Ewold's  Parsonage '  4- 

XXII   The  Thornes  of  Ullathorne ^95 

XXIII    MR.  ARABIN    READS    HIMSELF    IN    AT    ST.  EWOLD'S  2o8 
XXIV    MR.   SLOPE   MANAGES    MATTERS  VERY  CLEVERLY  AT 

Puddingdale 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  '■'^'^^ 

XXV  Fourteen  Arguments  in  favour  of  Mr.  Quiv- 
erful's Claims 228 

XXVI   Mrs.  Proudie  wrestles  and  gets  a  Fall    .     .  236 

XXVII   A  Love  Scene 247 

xxviii   Mrs.   Bold   is   entertained  by  Dr.   and   Mrs. 

Grantly  at  Plumstead 261 

XXIX   A  serious  Interview 276 

XXX   Another  Love  Scene 284 

XXXI   The  Bishop's  Library 297 

xxxii   A    New  Candidate    for   Ecclesiastical    Hon- 
ours      303 

xxxiii   Mrs.  Proudie  Victrix 318 

XXXIV  Oxford. — The  Master  and  Tutor  of  Lazarus  329 

XXXV  Miss  Thorne's  Fete  Champetre 337 

xxxvi   Ullathorne  Sports. — Act  I 347 

xxxvii  The  Signora  Neroni,  the  Countess  De  Courcy, 
and  Mrs.  Proudie  meet  each  other  at  Ulla- 
thorne      359 

XXXVIII   The  Bishop  sits  down  to  Breakfast,  and  the 

Dean  dies .  370 

XXXIX   The  Lookalofts  and  the  Greenacres    .     .     .  382 

XL   Ullathorne  Sports. — Act  II 391 

XLi   Mrs.  Bold  confides  her  Sorrow  to  her  Friend 

Miss  Stanhope 400 

XLii   Ullathorne  Sports. — Act  III 408 

xLiii   Mr.   and    Mrs.   Quiverful    are    made    Happy. 

Mr.  Slope  is  encouraged  by  the  Press  .     .  422 

xLiv   Mrs.  Bold  at  Home 436 

XLV   The  Stanhopes  at  Home 445 

xlvi   Mr.  Slope's   parting   Interview  with  the  Si- 
gnora        455 

XLVii   The  Dean  Elect 463 

XLViii   Miss  Thorne   shows   her    Talent  at    Match- 

MAKUJJG 472 

XLix   The  Belzebub  Colt 483 

viii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

L   The  Archdeacon  is  satisfied  with  the  State 

OF  Affairs 489 

LI   Mr.  Slope  bids  Farewell  to  the  Palace  and 

its  Inhabitants 496 

Lii   The  new  Dean  takes  Possession  of  the  Dean- 
ery, and  the  new  Warden  of  the  Hospital     503 

Liii   Conclusion 511 


IX 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

From  drawings  by  Hugh  M.  Eaton 

"' Shall  I  BEGIN,  ma'am?' SAID  Harry"  .     .     ,     .     Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

"They  left  the  reception-rooms  in  a  manner  not  al- 
together devoid  of  dignity"     90 

"It  WAS  A  sight  to  see,  A  deed  to  record  " 252 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHO    WILL   BE  THE   NEW   BISHOP? 

IN  the  latter  days  of  July  in  the  year  185 — ,  a  most  impor- 
tant question  was  for  ten  days  hourly  asked  in  the  cathe- 
dral city  of  Barchester,  and  answered  every  hour  in  various 
ways — Who  was  to  be  the  new  Bishop? 

The  death  of  old  Dr.  Grantly,  who  had  for  many  years 
filled  that  chair  with  meek  authority,  took  place  exactly  as 

the  ministry  of  Lord was  going  to  give  place  to  that  of 

Lord .     The  illness  of  the  good  old  man  was  long  and 

lingering,  and  it  became  at  last  a  matter  of  intense  interest 
to  those  concerned  whether  the  new  appointment  should  be 
made  by  a  conservative  or  liberal  government. 

It  was  pretty  well  understood  that  the  out-going  premier 
had  made  his  selection,  and  that  if  the  question  rested  with 
him,  the  mitre  would  .descend  on  the  head  of  Archdeacon 
Grantly,  the  old  bishop's  son.  The  archdeacon  had  long 
managed  the  affairs  of  the  diocese ;  and  for  some  months  pre- 
vious to  the  demise  of  his  father,  rumour  had  confidently 
assigned  to  him  the  reversion  of  his  father's  honours. 

Bishop  Grantly  died  as  he  had  lived,  peaceably,  slowly, 
without  pain  and  without  excitement.  The  breath  ebbed 
from  him  almost  imperceptibly,  and  for  a  month  before  his 
death,  it  was  a  question  whether  he  were  alive  or  dead. 

A  trying  time  was  this  for  the  archdeacon,  for  whom  was 
designed  the  reversion  of  his  father's  see  by  those  who  then 
had  the  giving  away  of  episcopal  thrones.  I  would  not  be 
understood  to  say  that  the  prime  minister  had  in  so  many 

3 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

words  promised  the  bishopric  to  Dr.  Grantly.  He  was  too 
discreet  a  man  for  that.  There  is  a  proverb  with  reference 
to  the  killing-  of  cats,  and  those  who  know  anything  either  of 
high  or  low  government  places,  will  be  well  aware  that  a 
promise  may  be  made  without  positive  words,  and  that  an 
expectant  may  be  put  into  the  highest  state  of  encourage- 
ment, though  the  great  man  on  whose  breath  he  hangs  may 
have  done  no  more  than  whisper  that  "Mr.  So-and-so  is  cer- 
tainly a  rising  man." 

Such  a  whisper  had  been  made,  and  was  known  by  those 
who  heard  it  to  signify  that  the  cures  of  the  diocese  of  Bar- 
chester  should  not  be  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the  arch- 
deacon. The  then  prime  minister  was  all  in  all  at  Oxford, 
and  had  lately  passed  a  night  at  the  house  of  the  master  of 
Lazarus.  Now  the  master  of  Lazarus — which  is,  by  the  bye, 
in  many  respects  the  most  comfortable,  as  well  as  the  richest 
college  at  Oxford, — was  the  archdeacon's  most  intimate 
friend  and  most  trusted  counsellor.  On  the  occasion  of  the 
prime  minister's  visit.  Dr.  Grantly  was  of  course  present,  and 
the  meeting  was  very  gracious.  On  the  following  morning 
Dr.  Gwynne,  the  master,  told  the  archdeacon  that  in  his  opin- 
ion the  thing  was  settled. 

At  this  time  the  bishop  was  quite  on  his  last  legs ;  but  the 
ministry  also  were  tottering.  Dr.  Grantly  returned  from 
Oxford  happy  and  elated,  to  resume  his  place  in  the  palace, 
and  to  continue  to  perform  for  the  father  the  last  duties  of  a 
son ;  which,  to  give  him  his  due,  he  performed  with  more  ten- 
der care  than  was  to  be  expected  from  his  usual  somewhat 
worldly  manners. 

A  month  since  the  physicians  had  named  four  weeks  as  the 
outside  period  during  which  breath  could  be  supported  within 
the  body  of  the  dying  man.  At  the  end  of  the  month  the 
physicians  wondered,  and  named  another  fortnight.  The  old 
man  lived  on  wine  alone,  but  at  the  end  of  the  fortnight  he 
still  lived ;  and  the  tidings  of  the  fall  of  the  ministry  became 
more  frequent.  Sir  Lamda  Mewnew  and  Sir  Omicron  Pie, 
the  two  great  London  doctors,  now  came  down  for  the  fifth 
time,  and  declared,  shaking  their  learned  heads,  that  another 
week  of  life  was  impossible ;  and  as  they  sat  down  to  lunch 
in  the  episcopal   dining-room,   whispered  to  the  archdeacon 

4 


WHO   WILL   BE    THE    NEW    BISHOP? 

their  own  private  knowledge  that  the  ministry  must  fall 
within  five  days.  The  son  returned  to  his  father's  room,  and 
after  administering  with  his  own  hands  the  sustaining  modi- 
cum of  madeira,  sat  down  by  the  bedside  to  calculate  his 
chances. 

The  ministry  were  to  be  out  within  five  days :  his  father 
was  to  be  dead  within — No,  he  rejected  that  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. The  ministry  were  to  be  out,  and  the  diocese  might 
probably  be  vacant  at  the  same  period.  There  was  much 
doubt  as  to  the  names  of  the  men  who  were  to  succeed  to 
power,  and  a  week  must  elapse  before  a  Cabinet  was  formed. 
Would  not  vacancies  be  filled  by  the  outgoing  men  during 
this  week?  Dr.  Grantly  had  a  kind  of  idea  that  such  would 
be  the  case,  but  did  not  know ;  and  then  he  wondered  at  his 
own  ignorance  on  such  a  question. 

He  tried  to  keep  his  mind  away  from  the  subject,  but  he 
could  not.  The  race  was  so  very  close,  and  the  stakes  were 
so  very  high.  He  then  looked  at  the  dying  man's  impassive, 
placid  face.  There  was  no  sign  there  of  death  or  disease ;  it 
was  something  thinner  than  of  yore,  somewhat  grayer,  and 
the  deep  lines  of  age  more  marked ;  but,  as  far  as  he  could 
judge,  life  might  yet  hang  there  for  weeks  to  come.  Sir 
Lamda  Mewnew  and  Sir  Omicron  Pie  had  thrice  been 
wrong,  and  might  yet  be  wrong  thrice  again.  The  old  bishop 
slept  during  twenty  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  but  during  the 
short  periods  of  his  waking  moments  he  knew  both  his  son 
and  his  dear  old  friend,  Mr.  Harding,  the  archdeacon's 
father-in-law,  and  would  thank  them  tenderly  for  their  care 
and  love.  Now  he  lay  sleeping  like  a  baby,  resting  easily  on 
his  back,  his  mouth  just  open,  and  his  few  gray  hairs  strag- 
gling from  beneath  his  cap !  his  breath  was  perfectly  noise- 
less, and  his  thin,  wan  hands,  which  lay  above  the  coverlid, 
never  moved.  Nothing  could  be  easier  than  the  old  man's 
passage  from  this  world  to  the  next. 

But  by  no  means  easy  were  the  emotions  of  him  who  sat 
there  watching.  He  knew  it  must  be  now  or  never.  He 
was  already  over  fifty,  and  there  was  little  chance  that  his 
friends  who  were  now  leaving  office  would  soon  return  to  it. 
No  probable  British  prime  minister  but  he  who  was  now  in, 
he  who  was  so  soon  to  be  out,  would  think  of  making  a 

5 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

bishop  of  Dr.  Grantly.  Thus  he  thought  long-  and  sadly,  in 
deep  silence,  and  then  gazed  at  that  still  living  face,  and  then 
at  last  dared  to  ask  himself  whether  he  really  longed  for  his 
father's  death. 

The  effort  was  a  salutary  one,  and  the  question  was  an- 
swered in  a  moment.  The  proud,  wishful,  worldly  man  sank 
on  his  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  taking  the  bishop's  hand 
within  his  own,  prayed  eagerly  that  his  sins  might  be  for- 
given him. 

His  face  was  still  buried  in  the  clothes  when  the  door  of 
the  bed-room  opened  noiselessly,  and  Mr.  Harding  entered 
with  a  velvet  step.  Mr.  Harding's  attendance  at  that  bedside 
had  been  nearly  as  constant  as  that  of  the  archdeacon,  and 
his  ingress  and  egress  was  as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  that 
of  his  son-in-law.  He  was  standing  close  beside  the  arch- 
deacon before  he  was  perceived,  and  would  also  have  knelt 
in  prayer  had  he  not  feared  that  his  doing  so  might  have 
caused  some  sudden  start,  and  have  disturbed  the  dying  man. 
Dr.  Grantly,  however,  instantly  perceived  him,  and  rose  from 
his  knees.  As  he  did  so  Mr.  Harding  took  both  his  hands, 
and  pressed  them  warmly.  There  was  more  fellowship  be- 
tween them  at  that  moment  than  there  had  ever  been  before, 
and  it  so  happened  that  after  circumstances  greatly  preserved 
the  feeling.  As  they  stood  there  pressing  each  other's  hands, 
the  tears  rolled  freely  down  their  cheeks. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dears," — said  the  bishop  with  feeble 
voice  as  he  woke — "God  bless  you — may  God  bless  you  both, 
my  dear  children :"  and  so  he  died. 

There  was  no  loud  rattle  in  the  throat,  no  dreadful  strug- 
gle, no  palpable  sign  of  death ;  but  the  lower  jaw  fell  a  little 
from  its  place,  and  the  eyes,  which  had  been  so  constantly 
closed  in  sleep,  now  remained  fixed  and  open.  Neither  Mr. 
Harding  nor  Dr.  Grantly  knew  that  life  was  gone,  though 
both  suspected  it. 

"I  believe  it's  all  over,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  still  pressing 
the  other's  hands.     "I  think — nay,  I  hope  it  is." 

"I  will  ring  the  bell,"  said  the  other,  speaking  all  but  in  a 
whisper.     "Mrs.  Phillips  should  be  here." 

Mrs.  Phillips,  the  nurse,  was  soon  in'the  room,  and  imme- 
diately, with  practised  hand,  closed  those  staring  eyes. 

6 


WHO    WILL   BE    THE   NEW   BISHOP? 

"It's  all  over,  Mrs.  Phillips?"  asked  Mr.  Harding. 

"My  lord's  no  more,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips,  turning  round 
and  curtseying  low  with  solemn  face;  "his  lordship's  gone 
more  like  a  sleeping  babby  than  any  that  I  ever  saw." 

"It's  a  great  relief,  archdeacon,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  "a 
great  relief — dear,  good,  excellent  old  man.  Oh  that  our 
last  moments  may  be  as  innocent  and  as  peaceful  as  his!" 

"Surely,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "The  Lord  be  praised'  for 
all  his  mercies ;  but,  for  a  meek,  mild,  gentle-spoken  Chris- 
tian, his  lordship  was "  and  Mrs.  Phillips,  with  unaffect- 
ed but  easy  grief,  put  up  her  white  apron  to  her  flowing  eyes. 

"You  cannot  but  rejoice  that  it  is  over,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
still  consoling  his  friend.  The  archdeacon's  mind,  however, 
had  already  travelled  from  the  death  chamber  to  the  closet  of 
the  prime  minister.  He  had  brought  himself  to  pray  for  his 
father's  life,  but  now  that  that  life  was  done,  minutes  were 
too  precious  to  be  lost.  It  was  now  useless  to  dally  with  the 
fact  of  the  bishop's  death — useless  to  lose  perhaps  everything 
for  the  pretence  of  a  foolish  sentiment. 

But  how  was  he  to  act  while  his  father-in-law  stood  there 
holding  his  hand?  how,  without  appearing  unfeeling,  was  he 
to  forget  his  father  in  the  bishop — to  overlook  what  he  had 
lost,  and  think  only  of  what  he  might  possibly  gain  ? 

"No ;  I  suppose  not,"  said  he,  at  last,  in  answer  to  Mr. 
Harding.     "We  have  all  expected  it  so  long." 

Mr.  Harding  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  from  the 
room.  "We  will  see  him  again  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
he;  "we  had  better  leave  the  room  now  to  the  women."  And 
so  they  went  down  stairs. 

It  was  already  evening  and  nearly  dark.  It  was  most  im- 
portant that  the  prime  minister  should  know  that  night  that 
the  diocese  was  vacant.  Everything  might  depend  on  it ;  and 
so,  in  answer  to  Mr.  Harding's  further  consolation,  the  arch- 
deacon suggested  that  a  telegraph  message  should  be  imme- 
diately sent  off  to  London.  Mr.  Harding,  who  had  really 
been  somewhat  surprised  to  find  Dr.  Grantly,  as  he  thought 
so  much  affected,  was  rather  taken  aback ;  but  he  made  no 
objection.  He  knew  that  the  archdeacon  had  some  hope  of 
succeeding  to  his  father's  place,  though  he  by  no  means  knew 
how  highly  raised  that  hope  had  been. 

7 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Grantly,  collecting  himself  and  shaking  off 
his  weakness,  "we  must  send  a  message  at  once;  we  don't 
know  what  might  be  the  consequence  of  delay.  Will  you 
doit?"' 

"I !  oh  yes ;  certainly :  I'll  do  anything,  only  I  don't  know 
exactly  what  it  is  you  want." 

Dr.  Grantly  sat  down  before  a  writing  table,  and  taking 
pen  and  ink,  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  as  follows : — 

"  By  Electric  Telegraph. 

'  For  the  Earl  of ,  Downing  Street,  or  elsewhere. 

"  '  The  Bishop  of  Barchester  is  dead.' 
"  Message  sent  by  the  Rev.  Septimus  Harding." 

"There,"  said  he,  "just  take  that  to  the  telegraph  office  at 
the  railway  station,  and  give  it  in  as  it  is;  they'll  probably 
make  you  copy  it  on  to  one  of  their  own  slips ;  that's  all  you'll 
have  to  do;  then  you'll  have  to  pay  them  half-a-crown ;"  and 
the  archdeacon  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  the 
necessary  sum. 

Mr.  Harding  felt  very  much  like  an  errand-boy,  and  also 
felt  that  he  was  called  on  to  perform  his  duties  as  such  at 
rather  an  unseemly  time;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  took  the 
slip  of  paper  and  the  proffered  coin. 

"But  you've  put  my  name  into  it,  archdeacon." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "there  should  be  the  name  of  some 
clergyman  you  know,  and  what  name  so  proper  as  that  of  so 
old  a  friend  as  yourself?  The  Earl  won't  look  at  the  name, 
you  may  be  sure  of  that ;  but  my  dear  Mr.  Harding,  pray 
don't  lose  any  time." 

Mr.  Harding  got  as  far  as  the  library  door  on  his  way  to 
the  station,  when  he  suddenly  remembered  the  news  with 
which  he  was  fraught  when  he  entered  the  poor  bishop's  bed- 
room. He  had  found  the  moment  so  inopportune  for  any 
mundane  tidings,  that  he  had  repressed  the  words  which  were 
on  his  tongue,  and  immediately  afterwards  all  recollection 
of  the  circumstance  was  for  the  time  banished  by  the  scene 
which  had  occurred. 

"But,  archdeacon,"  said  he,  turning  back,  "I  forgot  to  tell 
you — The  ministry  are  out." 


WHO    WILL    BE    THE    NEW    BISHOP? 

"Out!"  ejaculated  the  archdeacon,  in  a  tone  which  too 
plainly  showed  his  anxiety  and  dismay,  although  under  the 
circumstances  of  the  moment  he  endeavoured  to  control  him- 
self :     "Out !  who  told  you  so  ?" 

Mr.  Harding  explained  that  news  to  this  effect  had  come 
down  by  electric  telegraph,  and  that  the  tidings  had  been 
left  at  the  palace  door  by  Mr.  Chadwick. 

The  archdeacon  sat  silent  for  awhile  meditating,  and  Mr. 
Harding  stood  looking  at  him.  "Never  mind,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon at  last;  "send  the  message  all  the  same.  The  news 
must  be  sent  to  some  one,  and  there  is  at  present  no  one  else 
in  a  position  to  receive  it.  Do  it  at  once,  my  dear  friend; 
you  know  I  would  not  trouble  you,  were  I  in  a  state  to  do 
it  myself.  A  few  minutes'  time  is  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance." 

Mr.  Harding  went  out  and  sent  the  message,  and  it  may 
be  as  well  that  we  should  follow  it  to  its  destination.  Within 
thirty  minutes  of  its  leaving  Barchester  it  reached  the  Earl 

of  in  his  inner  library.     What  elaborate  letters,  what 

eloquent  appeals,  what  indignant  remonstrances,  he  might 
there  have  to  frame,  at  such  a  moment,  may  be  conceived, 
but  not  described !  How  he  was  preparing  his  thunder  for 
successful  rivals,  standing  like  a  British  peer  with  his  back 
to  the  sea-coal  fire,  and  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets, — 
how  his  fine  eye  was  lit  up  with  anger,  and  his  forehead 
gleamed  with  patriotism, — how  he  stamped  his  foot  as  he 
thought  of  his  heavy  associates, — how  he  all  but  swore  as  he 
remembered  how  much  too  clever  one  of  them  had  been, — 
my  creative  readers  may  imagine.  But  was  he  so  engaged? 
No :  history  and  truth  compel  me  to  deny  it.  He  was  sitting 
easily  on  a  lounging  chair,  conning  over  a  Newmarket  list, 
and  by  his  elbow  on  the  table  was  lying  open  an  uncut  French 
novel  on  which  he  was  engaged. 

He  opened  the  cover  in  which  the  message  was  enclosed, 
and  having  read  it,  he  took  his  pen  and  wrote  on  the  back 
of  it— 

"For  the  Earl  of , 

"With  the  Earl  of 's  compliments." 

and  sent  it  ofif  again  on  its  journey. 

9 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Thus  terminated  our  unfortunate  friend's  chance  of  pos- 
sessing the  glories  of  a  bishopric. 

The  names  of  many  divines  were  given  in  the  papers  as 
that  of  the  bishop  elect.  "The  British  Grandmother"  de- 
clared that  Dr.  Gwynne  was  to  be  the  man,  in  compliment  to 
the  late  ministry.  This  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Dr.  Grantly, 
but  he  was  not  doomed  to  see  himself  superseded  by  his 
friend.  "The  Anglican  Devotee"  put  forward  confidently  the 
claims  of  a  great  London  preacher  of  austere  doctrines ;  and 
"The  Eastern  Hemisphere,"  an  evening  paper  supposed  to 
possess  much  official  knowledge,  declared  in  favour  of  an 
eminent  naturalist,  a  gentleman  most  completely  versed  in 
the  knowledge  of  rocks  and  minerals,  but  supposed  by  many 
to  hold  on  religious  subjects  no  special  doctrines  whatever. 
"The  Jupiter,"  that  daily  paper,  which,  as  we  all  know,  is  the 
only  true  source  of  infallibly  correct  information  on  all  sub- 
jects, for  a  while  was  silent,  but  at  last  spoke  out.  The  mer- 
its of  all  these  candidates  were  discussed  and  somewhat  irrev- 
erently disposed  of,  and  then  "The  Jupiter"  declared  that  Dr. 
Proudie  was  to  be  the  man. 

Dr.  Proudie  was  the  man.  Just  a  month  after  the  demise 
of  the  late  bishop.  Dr.  Proudie  kissed  the  Queen's  hand  as  his 
successor  elect. 

We  must  beg  to  be  allowed  to  draw  a  curtain  over  the  sor- 
rows of  the  archdeacon  as  he  sat,  sombre  and  sad  at  heart,  in 
the  study  of  his  parsonage  at  Plumstead  Episcopi.  On  the 
day  subsequent  to  the  despatch  of  the  message  he  heard  that 

the  Earl  of had  consented  to  undertake  the  formation  of 

a  ministry,  and  from  that  moment  he  knew  that  his  chance 
was  over.  Many  will  think  that  he  was  wicked  to  grieve  for 
the  loss  of  episcopal  power,  wicked  to  have  coveted  it.  nay, 
wicked  even  to  have  thought  about  it,  in  the  way  and  at  the 
moments  he  had  done  so. 

With  such  censures  I  cannot  profess  that  I  completely 
agree.  The  nolo  episcopari,  though  still  in  use,  is  so  directly 
at  variance  with  the  tendency  of  all  human  wishes,  that  it 
cannot  be  thought  to  express  the  true  aspirations  of  rising 
priests  in  the  Church  of  England.  A  lawyer  does  not  sin  in 
seeking  to  be  a  judge,  or  in  compassing  his  wishes  by  all  hon- 
est means.     A   young  diplomat   entertains   a    fair   ambition 

10 


HIRAM'S    HOSPITAL. 

when  he  looks  forward  to  be  the  lord  of  a  first-rate  embassy ; 
and  a  poor  novelist  when  he  attempts  to  rival  Dickens  or  rise 
above  Fitzjeames,  commits  no  fault,  though  he  may  be  fool- 
ish, Sydney  Smith  truly  said  that  in  these  recreant  days  we 
cannot  expect  to  find  the  majesty  of  St.  Paul  beneath  the 
cassock  of  a  curate.  If  we  look  to  our  clergymen  to  be  more 
than  men,  we  shall  probably  teach  ourselves  to  think  that  they 
are  less,  and  can  hardly  hope  to  raise  the  character  of  the 
pastor  by  denying  to  him  the  right  to  entertain  the  aspirations 
of  a  man. 

Our  archdeacon  was  worldly — who  among  us  is  not  so? 
He  was  ambitious — who  among  us  is  ashamed  to  own  that 
"last  infirmity  of  noble  minds!"  He  was  avaricious,  my 
readers  will  say.  No — it  was  for  no  love  of  lucre  that  he 
wished  to  be  bishop  of  Barchester.  He  was  his  father's  only 
child,  and  his  father  had  left  him  great  wealth.  His  prefer- 
ment brought  him  in  nearly  three  thousand  a  year.  The 
bishopric,  as  cut  down  by  the  Ecclesiastical  Commission,  was 
only  five.  He  would  be  a  richer  man  as  archdeacon  than  he 
could  be  as  bishop.  But  he  certainly  did  desire  to  play 
first  fiddle;  he  did  desire  to  sit  in  full  lawn  sleeves  among 
the  peers  of  the  realm;  and  he  did  desire,  if  the  truth 
must  out,  to  be  called  "My  Lord"  by  his  reverend  breth- 
ren. 

His  hopes,  however,  were  they  innocent  or  sinful,  were  not 
fated  to  be  realised ;  and  Dr.  Proudie  was  consecrated  Bishop 
of  Barchester. 


CHAPTER    11. 

hiram's  hospital  according  to  act  of  parliament. 

IT  is  hardly  necessary  that  I  should  here  give  to  the  public 
any  lengthened  biography  of  Mr.  Harding,  up  to  the 
period  of  the  commencement  of  this  tale.  The  public  cannot 
have  forgotten  how  ill  that  sensitive  gentleman  bore  the  at- 
tack that  was  made  on  him  in  the  columns  of  the  Jupiter, 
with  reference  to  the  income  which  he  received  as  warden  of 
Hiram's  Hospital,  in  the  city  of  Barchester.     Nor  can  it  yet 

II 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

be  forgotten  that  a  law-suit  was  instituted  against  him  on  the 
matter  of  that  charity  by  Mr.  John  Bold,  who  afterwards 
married  his,  Mr.  Harding's,  younger  and  then  only  unmar- 
ried daughter.  Under  pressure  of  these  attacks,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing had  resigned  his  wardenship,  though  strongly  recom- 
mended to  abstain  from  doing  so,  both  by  his  friends  and  by 
his  lawyers.  He  did,  however,  resign  it,  and  betook  himself 
manfully  to  the  duties  of  the  small  parish  of  St.  Cuthbert's, 
in  the  city,  of  which  he  was  vicar,  continuing  also  to  perform 
those  of  precentor  of  the  cathedral,  a  situation  of  small  emolu- 
ment which  had  hitherto  been  supposed  to  be  joined,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  the  wardenship  of  the  Hospital  above 
spoken  of. 

When  he  left  the  hospital  from  which  he  had  been  so 
ruthlessly  driven,  and  settled  himself  down  in  his  own  modest 
manner  in  the  High  Street  of  Barchester,  he  had  not  expected 
that  others  would  make  more  fuss  about  it  than  he  was  in- 
clined to  do  himself;  and  the  extent  of  his  hope  was,  that  the 
movement  might  have  been  made  in  time  to  prevent  any 
further  paragraphs  in  the  Jupiter.  His  affairs,  however, 
were  not  allowed  to  subside  thus  quietly,  and  people  were 
quite  as  much  inclined  to  talk  about  "the  disinterested  sacrifice 
he  had  made,  as  they  had  before  been  to  upbraid  him  for  his 
cupidity. 

The  most  remarkable  thing  that  occurred,  was  the  receipt 
of  an  autograph  letter  from  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
in  which  the  primate  very  warmly  praised  his  conduct,  and 
begged  to  know  what  his  intentions  were  for  the  future.  Mr. 
Harding  replied  that  he  intended  to  be  rector  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's, in  Barchester :  and  so  that  matter  dropped.  Then  the 
newspapers  took  up  his  case,  the  Jupiter  among  the  rest,  and 
wafted  his  name  in  eulogistic  strains  through  every  reading- 
room  in  the  nation.  It  was  discovered  also,  that  he  was  the 
author  of  that  great  musical  work,  Harding's  Church  Music, 
— and  a  new  edition  was  spoken  of,  though,  I  believe,  never 
printed.  It  is,  however,  certain  that  the  work  was  intro- 
duced into  the  Royal  Chapel  at  St.  James's,  and  that  a  long 
criticism  appeared  in  the  Musical  Scrutator,  declaring  that  in 
no  previous  work  of  the  kind  had  so  much  research  been 
joined  with  such  exalted  musical  ability,  and  asserting  that 

12 


HIRAM'S    HOSPITAL. 

the  name  of  Harding  would  henceforward  be  known  wher- 
ever the  Arts  were  cultivated,  or  Religion  valued. 

This  was  high  praise,  and  I  will  not  deny  that  Mr.  Harding 
was  gratified  by  such  flattery;  for  if  Mr.  Harding  was  vain 
on  any  subject,  it  was  on  that  of  music.  But  here  the  matter 
rested.  The  second  edition,  if  printed,  was  never  purchased ; 
the  copies  which  had  been  introduced  into  the  Royal  Chapel 
disappeared  again,  and  were  laid  by  in  peace,  with  a  load  of 
similar  literature.  Mr.  Towers,  of  the  Jupiter,  and  his  breth- 
ren, occupied  themselves  with  other  names,  and  the  undying 
fame  promised  to  our  friend  was  clearly  intended  to  be 
posthumous. 

Mr.  Harding  had  spent  much  of  his  time  with  his  friend 
the  bishop,  much  with  his  daughter  Mrs.  Bold,  now,  alas,  a 
widow ;  and  had  almost  daily  visited  the  wretched  remnant 
of  his  former  subjects,  the  few  surviving  bedesmen  now  left 
at  Hiram's  Hospital.  Six  of  them  were  still  living.  The 
number,  according  to  old  Hiram's  will,  should  always  have 
been  twelve.  But  after  the  abdication  of  their  warden,  the 
bishop  had  appointed  no  successor  to  him,  no  new  occupants 
of  the  charity  had  been  nominated,  and  it  appeared  as  though 
the  hospital  at  Barchester  would  fall  into  abeyance,  unless 
the  powers  that  be  should  take  some  steps  towards  putting 
it  once  more  into  working  order. 

During  the  past  five  years,  the  powers  that  be  had  not 
overlooked  Barchester  Hospital,  and  sundry  political  doctors 
had  taken  the  matter  in  hand.  Shortly  after  Mr.  Harding's 
resignation,  the  Jupiter  had  very  clearly  shown  what  ought 
to  be  done.  In  about  half  a  column  it  had  distributed  the 
income,  rebuilt  the  building,  put  an  end  to  all  bickerings,  re- 
generated kindly  feeling,  provided  for  Mr.  Harding,  and 
placed  the  whole  thing  on  a  footing  which  could  not  but  be 
satisfactory  to  the  city  and  Bishop  of  Barchester,  and  to  the 
nation  at  large.  The  wisdom  of  this  scheme  was  testified 
by  the  number  of  letters  which  "Common  Sense."  "Veritas," 
and  "One  that  loves  fair  play"  sent  to  the  Jupiter,  all  ex- 
pressing admiration,  and  amplifying  on  the  details  given.  It 
is  singular  enough  that  no  adverse  letter  appeared  at  all,  and, 
therefore,  none  of  course  was  written. 

But  Cassandra  was  not  believed,  and  even  the  wisdom  of 

13 


BAKCHESTER  TOWERS. 

the  Jupiter  sometimes  falls  on  deaf  ears.  Though  other 
plans  did  not  put  themselves  forward  in  the  columns  of  the 
Jupiter,  reformers  of  church  charities  were  not  slack  to  make 
known  in  various  places  their  different  nostrums  for  setting 
Hiram's  Hospital  on  its  feet  again.  A  learned  bishop  took 
occasion,  in  the  Upper  House,  to  allude  to  the  matter,  inti- 
mating that  he  had  communicated  on  the  subject  with  his 
right  reverend  brother  of  Barchester.  The  radical  member 
for  Staleybridge  had  suggested  that  the  funds  should  be 
alienated  for  the  education  of  the  agricultural  poor  of  the 
country,  and  he  amused  the  house  by  some  anecdotes  touch- 
ing the  superstition  and  habits  of  the  agriculturists  in  ques- 
tion. A  political  pamphleteer  had  produced  a  few  dozen 
pages,  which  he  called  "Who  are  John  Hiram's  heirs?"  in- 
tending to  give  an  infallible  rule  for  the  governance  of  all 
such  establishments ;  and,  at  last,  a  member  of  the  govern- 
ment promised  that  in  the  next  session  a  short  bill  should 
be  introduced  for  regulating  the  affairs  of  Barchester,  and 
other  kindred  concerns. 

The  next  session  came,  and,  contrary  to  custom,  the  bill 
came  also.  Men's  minds  were  then  intent  on  other  things. 
The  first  threatenings  of  a  huge  war  hung  heavily  over  the 
nation,  and  the  question  as  to  Hiram's  heirs  did  not  appear  to 
interest  very  many  people  either  in  or  out  of  the  house.  The 
bill,  however,  was  read  and  re-read,  and  in  some  undistin- 
guished manner  passed  through  its  eleven  stages  without 
appeal  or  dissent.  What  would  John  Hiram  have  said  in 
the  matter,  could  he  have  predicted  that  some  forty-five  gen- 
tlemen would  take  on  themselves  to  make  a  law  altering  the 
whole  purport  of  his  will,  without  in  the  least  knowing  at 
the  moment  of  their  making  it,  what  it  was  that  they  were 
doing?  It  is  however  to  be  hoped  that  the  under-secretary 
for  the  Home  Office  knew,  for  to  him  had  the  matter  been 
confided. 

The  bill,  however,  did  pass,  and  at  the  time  at  which  this 
history  is  supposed  to  commence,  it  had  been  ordained  that 
there  should  be,  as  heretofore,  twelve  old  men  in  Barchester 
Hospital,  each  with  i,?.  4c?.  a  day ;  that  there  should  also  be 
twelve  old  women  to  be  located  in  a  house  to  be  built,  each 
with   IS.  2d.  a  day;  that  there  should  be  a  matron,  with  a 

14 


HIRAM'S    HOSPITAL. 

house  and  70/.  a  year;  a  steward  with  150/.  a  year;  and  lat- 
terly, a  warden  with  450/.  a  year,  who  should  have  the  spirit- 
ual guidance  of  both  establishments,  and  the  temporal  guid- 
ance of  that  appertaining  to  the  male  sex.  The  bishop,  dean, 
and  warden  were,  as  formerly,  to  appoint  in  turn  the  recip- 
ients of  the  charity,  and  the  bishop  was  to  appoint  the  officers. 
There  was  nothing  said  as  to  the  wardenship  being  held  by 
the  precentor  of  the  cathedral,  nor  a  word  as  to  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's right  to  the  situation. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  some  months  after  the  death  of 
the  old  bishop,  and  almost  immediately  consequent  on  the 
installation  of  his  successor,  that  notice  was  given  that  the 
reform  was  about  to  be  carried  out.  The  new  law  and  the 
new  bishop  were  among  the  earliest  works  of  a  new  ministry, 
or  rather  of  a  ministry  who,  having  for  a  while  given  place 
to  their  opponents,  had  then  returned  to  power ;  and  the  death 
of  Dr.  Grantly  occurred,  as  we  have  seen,  exactly  at  the 
period  of  the  change. 

Poor  Eleanor  Bold !  How  well  does  that  widow's  cap  be- 
come her,  and  the  solemn  gravity  with  which  she  devotes  her- 
self to  her  new  duties.     Poor  Eleanor  ! 

Poor  Eleanor !  I  cannot  say  that  with  me  John  Bold  was 
ever  a  favourite.  I  never  thought  him  worthy  of  the  wife 
he  had  won.  But  in  her  estimation  he  was  most  worthy. 
Hers  was  one  of  those  feminine  hearts  which  cling  to  a  hus- 
band, not  with  idolatry,  for  worship  can  admit  of  no  defect 
in  its  idol,  but  with  the  perfect  tenacity  of  ivy.  As  the  para- 
site plant  will  follow  even  the  defects  of  the  trunk  which  it 
embraces,  so  did  Eleanor  cHng  to  and  love  the  very  faults 
of  her  husband.  She  had  once  declared  that  whatever  her 
father  did  should  in  her  eyes  be  right.  She  then  transferred 
her  allegiance,  and  became  ever  ready  to  defend  the  worst 
failings  of  her  lord  and  master. 

And  John  Bold  was  a  man  to  be  loved  by  a  woman ;  he 
was  himself  affectionate,  he  was  confiding  and  manly ;  and 
that  arrogance  of  thought,  unsustained  by  first-rate  abilities, 
that  attempt  at  being  better  than  his  neighbours  which  jarred 
so  painfully  on  the  feelings  of  his  acquaintance,  did  not  in- 
jure him  in  the  estimation  of  his  wife. 

Could  she  even  have  admitted  that  he  had  a  fault,  his  early 

15 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

death  would  have  blotted  out  the  memory  of  it.  She  wept  as 
for  the  loss  of  the  most  perfect  treasure  with  which  mortal 
woman  had  ever  been  endowed ;  for  weeks  after  he  was  gone 
the  idea  of  future  happiness  in  this  world  was  hateful  to  her ; 
consolation,  as  it  is  called,  was  insupportable,  and  tears  and 
sleep  were  her  only  relief. 

But  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.  She  knew 
that  she  had  within  her  the  living  source  of  other  cares.  She 
knew  that  there  was  to  be  created  for  her  another  subject  of 
weal  or  woe,  of  unutterable  joy  or  despairing  sorrow,  as  God 
in  his  mercy  might  vouchsafe  to  her.  At  first  this  did  but 
augment  her  grief!  To  be  the  mother  of  a  poor  infant,  or- 
phaned before  it  was  born,  brought  forth  to  the  sorrows  of 
an  ever  desolate  hearth,  nurtured  amidst  tears  and  wailing, 
and  then  turned  adrift  into  the  world  without  the  aid  of  a 
father's  care !     There  was  at  first  no  joy  in  this. 

By  degrees,  however,  her  heart  became  anxious  for  another 
object,  and,  before  its  birth,  the  stranger  was  expected  with 
all  the  eagerness  of  a  longing  mother.  Just  eight  months 
after  the  father's  death  a  second  John  Bold  was  born,  and  if 
the  worship  of  one  creature  can  be  innocent  in  another,  let 
us  hope  that  the  adoration  ofifered  over  the  cradle  of  the 
fatherless  infant  may  not  be  imputed  as  a  sin. 

It  will  not  be  worth  our  while  to  define  the  character  of 
the  child,  or  to  point  out  in  how  far  the  faults  of  the  father 
were  redeemed  wiihin  that  little  breast  by  the  virtues  of  the 
mother.  The  baby,  as  a  baby,  was  all  that  was  delightful, 
and  I  cannot  foresee  that  it  will  be  necessary  for  us  to  inquire 
into  the  facts  of  his  after  life.  Our  present  business  at  Bar- 
chester  will  not  occupy  us  above  a  year  or  two  at  the  fur- 
thest, and  I  will  leave  it  to  some  other  pen  to  produce,  if  nec- 
essary, the  biography  of  John  Bold  the  Younger. 

But,  as  a  baby,  this  baby  was  all  that  could  be  desired. 
This  fact  no  one  attempted  to  deny.  "Is  he  not  delightful  ?" 
she  would  say  to  her  father,  looking  up  into  his  face  from 
her  knees,  her  lustrous  eyes  overflowing  with  soft  tears,  her 
young  face  encircled  by  her  close  widow's  cap  and  her  hands 
on  each  side  of  the  cradle  in  which  her  treasure  was  sleeping. 
The  grandfather  would  gladly  admit  that  the  treasure  was 
delightful,  and  the  uncle  archdeacon  himself  would  agree, 

i6 


HIRAM'S    HOSPITAL. 

and  Mrs.  Grantly,  Eleanor's  sister,  would  re-echo  the  word 

with  true  sisterly  energy ;  and  Mary   Bold  but   Mary 

Bold  was  a  second  worshipper  at  the  same  shrine. 

The  baby  was  really  delightful ;  he  took  his  food  with  a 
will,  struck  out  his  toes  merrily  whenever  his  legs  were  un- 
covered, and  did  not  have  fits.  These  are  supposed  to  be  the 
strongest  points  of  baby  perfection,  and  in  all  these  our  baby 
excelled. 

And  thus  the  widow's  deep  grief  was  softened,  and  a  sweet 
balm  was  poured  into  the  wound  which  she  had  thought 
nothing  but  death  could  heal.  How  much  kinder  is  God  to 
us  than  we  are  willing  to  be  to  ourselves !  At  the  loss  of 
every  dear  face,  at  the  last  going  of  every  well  beloved  one, 
we  all  doom  ourselves  to  an  eternity  of  sorrow,  and  look  to 
waste  ourselves  away  in  an  ever-running  fountain  of  tears. 
How  seldom  does  such  grief  endure !  how  blessed  is  the 
goodness  which  forbids  it  to  do  so !  "Let  me  ever  remember 
my  living  friends,  but  forget  them  as  soon  as  dead,"  was  the 
prayer  of  a  wise  man  who  understood  the  mercy  of  God. 
Few  perhaps  would  have  the  courage  to  express  such  a  wish, 
and  yet  to  do  so  would  only  be  to  ask  for  that  release  from 
sorrow,  which  a  kind  Creator  almost  always  extends  to  us. 

I  would  not,  however,  have  it  imagined  that  Mrs.  Bold  for- 
got her  husband.  She  daily  thought  of  him  with  all  conjugal 
love,  and  enshrined  his  memory  in  the  innermost  centre  of 
her  heart.  But  yet  she  was  happy  in  her  baby.  It  was  so 
sweet  to  press  the  living  toy  to  her  breast,  and  feel  that  a 
human  being  existed  who  did  owe,  and  was  to  owe  every- 
thing to  her;  whose  daily  food  was  drawn  from  herself; 
whose  little  wants  could  all  be  satisfied  by  her;  whose  little 
heart  would  first  love  her  and  her  only ;  whose  infant  tongue 
would  make  its  first  effort  in  calling  her  by  the  sweetest  name 
a  woman  can  hear.  And  so  Eleanor's  bosom  became  tran- 
quil, and  she  set  about  her  new  duties  eagerly  and  gratefully. 

As  regards  the  concerns  of  the  world,  John  Bold  had  left 
his  widow  in  prosperous  circumstances.  He  had  bequeathed 
to  her  all  that  he  possessed,  and  that  comprised  an  income 
much  exceeding  what  she  or  her  friends  thought  necessary 
for  her.  It  amounted  to  nearly  a  thousand  a  year ;  and  when 
she  reflected  on  its  extent,  her  dearest  hope  was  to  hand  it 

17 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

over,  not  only  unimpaired  but  increased,  to  her  husband's 
son,  to  her  own  darling-,  to  the  little  man  who  now  lay  sleep- 
ing on  her  knee,  happily  ignorant  of  the  cares  which  were  to 
be  accumulated  in  his  behalf. 

When  John  Bold  died  she  earnestly  implored  her  father  to 
come  and  live  with  her,  but  this  Mr.  Harding  declined, 
though  for  some  weeks  he  remained  with  her  as  a  visitor. 
He  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  forego  the  possession  of 
some  small  home  of  his  own,  and  so  remained  in  the  lodg- 
ings he  had  first  selected  over  a  chemist's  shop  in  the  High 
Street  of  Barchester. 


CHAPTER   HI. 

DR.    AND    MRS.  PROUDIE. 

THIS  narrative  is  supposed  to  commence  immediately 
after  the  installation  of  Dr.  Proudie.  I  will  not  de- 
scribe the  ceremony,  as  I  do  not  precisely  understand  its 
nature.  I  am  ignorant  whether  a  bishop  be  chaired  like  a 
member  of  parliament,  or  carried  in  a  gilt  coach  like  a  lord 
mayor,  or  sworn  in  like  a  justice  of  peace,  or  introduced  like 
a  peer  to  the  upper  house,  or  led  between  two  brethren  like 
a  knight  of  the  garter;  but  I  do  know  that  every  thing  was 
properly  done,  and  that  nothing  fit  or  becoming  to  a  young 
bishop  was  omitted  on  the  occasion. 

Dr.  Proudie  was  not  the  man  to  allow  anything  to  be 
omitted  that  might  be  becoming  to  his  new  dignity.  He  un- 
derstood well  the  value  of  forms,  and  knew  that  the  due  ob- 
servance of  rank  could  not  be  maintained  unless  the  exterior 
trappings  belonging  to  it  were  held  in  proper  esteem.  He 
was  a  man  born  to  move  in  high  circles ;  at  least  so  he 
thought  himself,  and  circumstances  had  certainly  sustained 
him  in  this  view.  He  was  the  nephew  of  an  Irish  baron  by 
his  mother's  side,  and  his  wife  was  the  niece  of  a  Scotch  earl. 
He  had  for  years  held  some  clerical  office  appertaining  to 
courtly  matters,  which  had  enabled  him  to  live  in  London, 
and  to  entrust  his  parish  to  his  curate.  He  had  been  preacher 
to  the  royal  beefeaters,  curator  of  theological  manuscripts  in 

i8 


DR.    AND    AIRS.    PROUDIE. 

the  Ecclesiastical  Courts,  chaplain  to  the  Queen's  yeomanry 
guard,  and  almoner  to  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of 
Rappe-Blankenberg. 

His  residence  in  the  metropolis,  rendered  necessary  by  the 
duties  thus  entrusted  to  him,  his  high  connections,  and  the 
peculiar  talents  and  nature  of  the  man,  recommended  him  to 
persons  in  power ;  and  Dr.  Proudie  became  known  as  a  useful 
and  rising  clergyman. 

Some  few  years  since,  even  within  the  memory  of  many 
who  are  not  yet  willing  to  call  themselves  old,  a  liberal  clergy- 
man was  a  person  not  frequently  to  be  met.  Sydney  Smith 
was  such,  and  was  looked  on  as  little  better  than  an  infidel ;  a 
few  others  also  might  be  named,  but  they  were  "rarse  aves," 
and  were  regarded  with  doubt  and  distrust  by  their  brethren. 
No  man  was  so  surely  a  tory  as  a  country  rector — nowhere 
were  the  powers  that  be  so  cherished  as  at  Oxford. 

When,  however,  Dr.  Whately  was  made  an  archbishop,  and 
Dr.  Hampden  some  years  afterwards  regius  professor,  many 
wise  divines  saw  that  a  change  was  taking  place  in  men's 
minds,  and  that  more  liberal  ideas  would  henceforward  be 
suitable  to  the  priests  as  well  as  to  the  laity.  Clergymen  be- 
gan to  be  heard  of  who  had  ceased  to  anathematise  papists 
on  the  one  hand,  or  vilify  dissenters  on  the  other.  It  ap- 
peared clear  that  high  church  principles,  as  they  are  called, 
were  no  longer  to  be  surest  claims  to  promotion  with  at  any 
rate  one  section  of  statesmen,  and  Dr.  Proudie  was  one  among 
those  who  early  in  life  adapted  himself  to  the  views  held  by 
the  whigs  on  most  theological  and  religious  subjects.  He 
bore  with  the  idolatry  of  Rome,  tolerated  even  the  infidelity 
of  Socinianism,  and  was  hand  and  glove  with  the  Presbyte- 
rian Synods  of  Scotland  and  Ulster. 

Such  a  man  at  such  a  time  was  found  to  be  useful,  and  Dr. 
Proudie's  name  began  to  appear  in  the  newspapers.  He  was 
made  one  of  a  commission  who  went  over  to  Ireland  to  ar- 
range matters  preparative  to  the  working  of  the  national 
board ;  he  became  honorary  secretary  to  another  commission 
nominated  to  inquire  into  the  revenues  of  cathedral  chapters; 
and  had  had  something  to  do  with  both  the  regium  donum 
and  the  Maynooth  grant. 

It  must  not  on  this  account  be  taken  as  proved  that  Dr. 

19 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Proudie  was  a  man  of  great  mental  powers,  or  even  of  much 
capacity  for  business,  for  such  qualities  had  not  been  required 
in  him.  In  the  arrangement  of  those  church  reforms  with 
which  he  was  connected,  the  ideas  and  original  conception 
of  the  work  to  be  done  were  generally  furnished  by  the  lib- 
eral statesmen  of  the  day,  and  the  labour  of  the  details  was 
borne  by  officials  of  a  lower  rank.  It  was,  however,  thought 
expedient  that  the  name  of  some  clergyman  should  appear  in 
such  matters,  and  as  Dr.  Proudie  had  become  known  as  a 
tolerating  divine,  great  use  of  this  sort  was  made  of  his  name. 
If  he  did  not  do  much  active  good,  he  never  did  any  harm ; 
he  was  amenable  to  those  who  were  really  in  authority, 
and  at  the  sittings  of  the  various  boards  to  which 
he  belonged  maintained  a  kind  of  dignity  which  had  its 
value. 

He  was  certainly  possessed  of  sufficient  tact  to  answer  the 
purpose  for  which  he  was  required  without  making  himself 
troublesome ;  but  it  must  not  therefore  be  surmised  that  he 
doubted  his  own  power,  or  failed  to  believe  that  he  could 
himself  take  a  high  part  in  high  affairs  when  his  own  turn 
came.  He  was  biding  his  time,  and  patiently  looking  for- 
ward to  the  days  when  he  himself  would  sit  authoritative  at 
some  board,  and  talk  and  direct,  and  rule  the  roast,  while 
lesser  stars  sat  round  and  obeyed,  as  he  had  so  well  accus- 
tomed himself  to  do. 

His  reward  and  his  time  had  now  come.  He  was  selected 
for  the  vacant  bishopric,  and  on  the  next  vacancy  which 
might  occur  in  any  diocese  would  take  his  place  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  prepared  to  give  not  a  silent  vote  in  all  matters 
concerning  the  weal  of  the  church  establishment.  Toleration 
was  to  be  the  basis  on  which  he  was  to  fight  his  battles,  and 
in  the  honest  courage  of  his  heart  he  thought  no  evil  would 
come  to  him  in  encountering  even  such  foes  as  his  brethren 
of  Exeter  and  Oxford. 

Dr.  Proudie  was  an  ambitious  man,  and  before  he  was  well 
consecrated  Bishop  of  Barchester,  he  had  begun  to  look  up 
to  archiepiscopal  splendour,  and  the  glories  of  Lambeth,  or  at 
any  rate  of  Bishopsthorpe.  He  was  comparatively  young, 
and  had,  as  he  fondly  flattered  himself,  been  selected  as  pos- 
sessing such  gifts,  natural  and  acquired,  as  must  be  sure  to 

20 


DR.    AND    MRS.    PROUDIE. 

recommend  him  to  a  yet  higher  notice,  now  that  a  higher 
sphere  was  opened  to  him.  Dr.  Proudie  was,  therefore,  quite 
prepared  to  take  a  conspicuous  part  in  all  theological  affairs 
appertaining  to  these  realms ;  and  having  such  views,  by  no 
means  intended  to  bury  himself  at  Barchester  as  his  predeces- 
sor had  done.  No :  London  should  still  be  his  ground ;  a 
comfortable  mansion  in  a  provincial  city  might  be  well  enough 
for  the  dead  months  of  the  year.  Indeed  Dr.  Proudie  had 
always  felt  it  necessary  to  his  position  to  retire  from  London 
when  other  great  and  fashionable  people  did  so ;  but  London 
should  still  be  his  fixed  residence,  and  it  was  in  London  that 
he  resolved  to  exercise  that  hospitality  so  peculiarly  recom- 
mended to  all  bishops  by  St.  Paul.  How  otherwise  could  he 
keep  himself  before  the  world?  how  else  give  to  the  govern- 
ment, in  matters  theological,  the  full  benefit  of  his  weight 
and  talents  ? 

This  resolution  was  no  doubt  a  salutary  one  as  regarded 
the  world  at  large,  but  was  not  likely  to  make  him  popular 
either  with  the  clergy  or  people  of  Barchester.  Dr.  Grantly 
had  always  lived  there ;  and  in  truth  it  was  hard  for  a  bishop 
to  be  popular  after  Dr.  Grantly.  His  income  had  averaged 
9000/  a  year ;  his  successor  was  to  be  rigidly  limited  to 
5000/.  He  had  but  one  child  on  whom  to  spend  his  money ; 
Dr.  Proudie  had  seven  or  eight.  He  had  been  a  man  of  few 
personal  expenses,  and  they  had  been  confined  to  the  tastes  of 
a  moderate  gentleman ;  but  Dr.  Proudie  had  to  maintain  a 
position  in  fashionable  society,  and  had  that  to  do  with  com- 
paratively small  means.  Dr.  Grantly  had  certainly  kept  his 
carriage,  as  became  a  bishop ;  but  his  carriage,  horses,  and 
coachman,  though  they  did  very  well  for  Barchester,  would 
have  been  almost  ridiculous  at  Westminster.  Mrs.  Proudie 
determined  that  her  husband's  equipage  should  not  shame 
her,  and  things  on  which  Mrs.  Proudie  resolved,  were  gen- 
erally accomplished. 

From  all  this  it  was  likely  to  result  that  Dr.  Proudie  would 
not  spend  much  money  at  Barchester;  whereas  his  predeces- 
sor had  dealt  with  the  tradesmen  of  the  city  in  a  manner  very 
much  to  their  satisfaction.  The  Grantlys,  father  and  son, 
had  spent  their  money  like  gentlemen ;  but  it  soon  became 
whispered    in    Barchester  that   Dr.    Proudie   was   not   unac- 

21 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

quainted  with  those  prudent  devices  by  which  the  utmost 
show  of  wealth  is  produced  from  hmited  means. 

In  person  Dr.  Proudie  is  a  good  looking  man ;  spruce  and 
dapper,  and  very  tidy.  He  is  somewhat  below  middle  height, 
being  about  five  feet  four;  but  he  makes  up  for  the  inches 
which  he.  wants  by  the  dignity  with  which  he  carries  those 
which  he  has.  It  is  no  fault  of  his  own  if  he  has  not  a  com- 
manding eye,  for  he  studies  hard  to  assume  it.  His  features 
are  well  formed,  though  perhaps  the  sharpness  of  his  nose 
may  give  to  his  face  in  the  eyes  of  some  people  an  air  of  in- 
significance. If  so,  it  is  greatly  redeemed  by  his  mouth  and 
chin,  of  which  he  is  justly  proud. 

Dr.  Proudie  may  well  be  said  to  have  been  a  fortunate  man, 
for  he  was  not  born  to  wealth,  and  he  is  now  bishop  of  Bar- 
chester ;  but  nevertheless  he  has  his  cares.  He  has  a  large 
family,  of  whom  the  three  eldest  are  daughters,  now  all 
grown  up  and  fit  for  fashionable  life ;  and  he  has  a  wife.  It 
is  not  my  intention  to  breathe  a  word  against  the  character 
of  Mrs.  Proudie,  but  still  I  cannot  think  that  with  all  her 
virtues  she  adds  much  to  her  husband's  happiness.  The  truth 
is  that  in  matters  domestic  she  rules  supreme  over  her  titular 
lord,  and  rules  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Nor  is  this  all.  Things 
domestic  Dr.  Proudie  might  have  abandoned  to  her,  if  not 
voluntarily,  yet  willingly.  But  Mrs.  Proudie  is  not  satisfied 
with  such  home  dominion,  and  stretches  her  power  over  all 
his  movements,  and  will  not  even  abstain  from  things  spir- 
itual.    In  fact,  the  bishop  is  henpecked. 

The  archdeacon's  wife,  in  her  happy  home  at  Plumstead, 
knows  how  to  assume  the  full  privileges  of  her  rank,  and  ex- 
press her  own  mind  in  becoming  tone  and  place.  But  Mrs. 
Grantly's  sway,  if  sway  she  has,  is  easy  and  beneficent.  She 
never  shames  her  husband ;  before  the  world  she  is  a  pattern 
of  obedience ;  her  voice  is  never  loud,  nor  her  looks  sharp : 
doubtless  she  values  power,  and  has  not  unsuccessfully  striven 
to  acquire  it ;  but  she  knows  what  should  be  the  limits  of  a 
woman's  rule. 

Not  so  Mrs.  Proudie.  This  lady  is  habitually  authorita- 
tive to  all,  but  to  her  poor  husband  she  is  despotic.  Success- 
ful as  has  been  his  career  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  it  would 
seem  that  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife  he  is  never  right.     All  hope 

22 


DR.    AND    MRS.    PROUDIE. 

of  defending  himself  has  long  passed  from  him ;  indeed  he 
rarely  even  attempts  self-justification;  and  is  aware  that  sub- 
mission produces  the  nearest  approach  to  peace  which  his  own 
house  can  ever  attain. 

Mrs.  Proudie  has  not  been  able  to  sit  at  the  boards  and 
committees  to  which  her  husband  has  been  called  by  the  state ; 
nor,  as  he  often  reflects,  can  she  make  her  voice  heard  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  It  may  be  that  she  will  refuse  to  him  per- 
mission to  attend  to  this  branch  of  a  bishop's  duties ;  it  may 
be  that  she  will  insist  on  his  close  attendance  to  l]is  own 
closet.  He  has  never  whispered  a  word  on  the  subject  to 
living  ears,  but  he  has  already  made  his  fixed  resolve.  Should 
such  an  attempt  be  made  he  will  rebel.  Dogs  have  turned 
against  their  masters,  and  even  Neapolitans  against  their 
rulers,  when  oppression  has  been  too  severe.  And  Dr. 
Proudie  feels  within  himself  that  if  the  cord  be  drawn  too 
tight,  he  also  can  muster  courage  and  resist. 

The  state  of  vassalage  in  which  our  bishop  has  been  kept 
Ky  his  wife  has  not  tended  to  exalt  his  character  in  the  eyes 
of  his  daughters,  who  assume  in  addressing  their  father  too 
much  of  that  authority  which  is  not  properly  belonging,  at 
any  rate,  to  them.  They  are,  on  the  whole,  fine  engaging 
young  ladies.     They  are  tall  and  robust  like  their  mother, 

whose  high  cheek  bones,  and ,  we  may  say  auburn  hair, 

they  all  inherit.  They  think  somewhat  too  much  of  their 
grand  uncles,  who  have  not  hitherto  returned  the  compliment 
by  thinking  much  of  them.  But  now  that  their  father  is  a 
bishop,  it  is  probable  that  family  ties  will  be  drawn  closer. 
Considering  their  connection  with  the  church,  they  entertain 
but  few  prejudices  against  the  pleasures  of  the  world;  and 
have  certainly  not  distressed  their  parents,  as  too  many  Eng- 
lish girls  have  lately  done,  by  any  enthusiastic  wish  to  devote 
themselves  to  the  seclusion  of  a  protestant  nunnery.  Dr. 
Proudie's  sons  are  still  at  school. 

One  other  marked  peculiarity  in  the  character  of  the  bish- 
op's wife  must  be  mentioned.  Though  not  averse  to  the 
society  and  manners  of  the  world,  she  is  in  her  own  way  a 
religious  woman ;  and  the  form  in  which  this  tendency  shows 
itself  in  her  is  by  a  strict  observance  of  Sabbatarian  rule. 
Dissipation  and  low  dresses  during  the  week  are,  under  her 

23 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

control,  atoned  for  by  three  services,  an  evening'  sermon  read 
by  herself,  and  a  perfect  abstinence  from  any  cheering  em- 
ployment on  the  Sunday.  Unfortunately  for  those  under  her 
roof  to  whom  the  dissipation  and  low  dresses  are  not  ex- 
tended, her  servants  namely  and  her  husband,  the  compensat- 
ing strictness  of  the  Sabbath  includes  all.  Woe  betide  the 
recreant  housemaid  who  is  found  to  have  been  listening  to 
the  honey  of  a  sweetheart  in  the  Regent's  park,  instead  of 
the  soul-stirring  evening  discourse  of  Mr.  Slope.  Not  only 
is  she  sent  adrift,  but  she  is  so  sent  with  a  character  which 
leaves  her  little  hope  of  a  decent  place.  Woe  betide  the  six- 
foot  hero  who  escorts  Mrs.  Proudie  to  her  pew  in  red  plush 
breeches,  if  he  slips  away  to  the  neighbouring  beer-shop,  in- 
stead of  falling  into  the  back  seat  appropriated  to  his  use. 
Mrs.  Proudie  has  the  eyes  of  Argus  for  such  offenders. 
Occasional  drunkenness  in  the  week  may  be  overlooked,  for 
six  feet  on  low  wages  are  hardly  to  be  procured  if  the  morals 
are  always  kept  at  a  high  pitch ;  but  not  even  for  grandeur 
or  economy  will  Mrs.  Proudie  forgive  a  desecration  of  the 
Sabbath. 

In  such  matters  Mrs,  Proudie  allows  herself  to  be  often 
guided  by  that  eloquent  preacher,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Slope,  and 
as  Dr.  Proudie  is  guided  by  his  wife,  it  necessarily  follows 
that  the  eminent  man  we  have  named  has  obtained  a  good 
deal  of  control  over  Dr.  Proudie  in  matters  concerning  re- 
ligion. Air.  Slope's  only  preferment  has  hitherto  been  that 
of  reader  and  preacher  in  a  London  district  church:  and  on 
the  consecration  of  his  friend  the  new  bishop,  he  readily  gave 
this  up  to  undertake  the  onerous  but  congenial  duties  of  do- 
mestic chaplain  to  his  lordship. 

Mr.  Slope,  however,  on  his  first  introduction,  must  not  be 
brought  before  the  public  at  the  tail  of  a  chapter. 


24 


THE    BISHOP'S    CHAPLAIN. 
CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    bishop's    chaplain. 

OF  the  Rev.  Mr.  Slope's  parentage  I  am  not  able  to  say 
much.  I  have  heard  it  asserted  that  he  is  lineally  de- 
scended from  that  eminent  physician  who  assisted  at  the  birth 
of  Mr.  T.  Shandy,  and  that  in  early  years  he  added  an  "e"  to 
his  name,  for  the  sake  of  euphony,  as  other  great  men  have 
done  before  him.  If  this  be  so,  I  presume  he  was  christened 
Obadiah,  for  that  is  his  name,  in  commemoration  of  the  con- 
flict in  which  his  ancestor  so  distinguished  himself.  All  my 
researches  on  the  subject  have,  however,  failed  in  enabling 
me  to  fix  the  date  on  which  the  family  changed  its  religion. 

He  had  been  a  sizar  at  Cambridge,  and  had  there  con- 
ducted himself  at  any  rate  successfully,  for  in  due  process  of 
time  he  was  an  M.A.,  having  university  pupils  under  his  care. 
From  thence  he  was  transferred  to  London,  and  became 
preacher  at  a  new  district  church  built  on  the  confines  of 
Baker  Street.  He  was  in  this  position  when  congenial  ideas 
on  religious  subjects  recommended  him  to  Mrs.  Proudie,  and 
the  intercourse  had  become  close  and  confidential. 

Having  been  thus  familiarly  thrown  among  the  Misses 
Proudie,  it  was  no  more  than  natural  that  some  softer  feeling 
than  friendship  should  be  engendered.  There  have  been 
some  passages  of  love  between  him  and  the  eldest  hope, 
Olivia ;  but  they  have  hitherto  resulted  in  no  favourable  ar- 
rangement. In  truth,  Mr.  Slope  having  made  a  declaration 
of  afifection,  afterwards  withdrew  it  on  finding  that  the  doc- 
tor had  CO  immediate  worldly  funds  with  which  to  endow 
his  child;  and  it  may  easily  be  conceived  that  Miss  Proudie, 
after  such  an  announcement  on  his  part,  was  not  readily  dis- 
posed to  receive  any  further  show  of  affection.  On  the  ap- 
pointment of  Dr.  Proudie  to  the  bishopric  of  Barchester,  Mr. 
Slope's  views  were  in  truth  somewhat  altered.  Bishops,  even 
though  they  be  poor,  can  provide  for  clerical  children,  and 
Mr.  Slope  began  to  regret  that  he  had  not  been  more  disin- 
terested. He  no  sooner  heard  the  tidings  of  the  doctor's  ele- 
vation, than  he  recommenced  his  siege,  not  violently,  indeed, 

25 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

but  respectfully,  and  at  a  distance.  Olivia  Proudie,  however, 
was  a  girl  of  spirit :  she  had  the  blood  of  two  peers  in  her 
veins,  and,  better  still,  she  had  another  lover  on  her  books; 
so  Mr.  Slope  sighed  in  vain ;  and  the  pair  soon  found  it  con- 
venient to  establish  a  mutual  bond  of  inveterate  hatred. 

It  may  be  thought  singular  that  Mrs.  Proudie's  friendship 
for  the  young  clergyman  should  remain  firm  after  such  an 
affair;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  had  known  nothing  of  it. 
Though  very  fond  of  Mr.  Slope  herself,  she  had  never  con- 
ceived the  idea  that  either  of  her  daughters  would  become  so, 
and  remembering  their  high  birth  and  social  advantages,  ex- 
pected for  them  matches  of  a  different  sort.  Neither  the 
gentleman  nor  the  lady  found  it  necessary  to  enlighten  her. 
Olivia's  two  sisters  had  each  known  of  the  affair,  so  had  all 
the  servants,  so  had  all  the  people  living  in  the  adjoining 
houses  on  either  side ;  but  Mrs.  Proudie  had  been  kept  in  the 
dark. 

Mr.  Slope  soon  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection,  that 
as  he  had  been  selected  as  chaplain  to  the  bishop,  it  would 
probably  be  in  his  power  to  get  the  good  things  in  the  bishop's 
gift,  without  troubling  himself  with  the  bishop's  daughter; 
and  he  found  himself  able  to  endure  the  pangs  of  rejected 
love.  As  he. sat  himself  down  in  the  railway  carriage,  con- 
fronting the  bishop  and  Mrs.  Broudie,  as  they  started  on  their 
first  journey  to  Barchester,  he  began  to  form  in  his  own  mind 
a  plan  of  his  future  life.  He  knew  well  his  patron's  strong 
points,  but  he  knew  the  weak  ones  as  well.  He  understood 
correctly  enough  to  what  attempts  the  new  bishop's  high 
spirit  would  soar,  and  he  rightly  guessed  that  public  life 
would  better  suit  the  great  man's  taste,  than  the  small  details 
of  diocesan  duty. 

He,  therefore,  he,  Mr.  Slope,  would  in  effect  be  bishop  of 
Barchester.  Such  was  his  resolve;  and  to  give  Mr.  Slope 
his  due,  he  had  both  courage  and  spirit  to  bear  him  out  in 
his  resolution.  He  knew  that  he  should  have  a  hard  battle 
to  fight,  for  the  power  and  patronage  of  the  see  would  be 
equally  coveted  by  another  great  mind — Mrs.  Proudie  would 
also  choose  to  be  bishop  of  Barchester.  Mr.  Slope,  however, 
flattered  himself  that  he  could  out-manoeuvre  the  lady.  She 
must  live  much  in  London,  while  he  would  always  be  on  the 

26 


THE   BISHOP'S    CHAPLAIN. 

spot.  She  would  necessarily  remain  ignorant  of  much,  while 
he  would  know  everything  belonging  to  the  diocese.  At  first, 
doubtless,  he  must  flatter  and  cajole,  perhaps  yield,  in  some 
things;  but  he  did  not  doubt  of  ultimate  triumph.  If  all 
other  means  failed,  he  could  join  the  bishop  against  his  wife, 
inspire  courage  into  the  unhappy  man,  lay  an  axe  to  the  root 
of  the  woman's  power,  and  emancipate  the  husband. 

Such  were  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  looking  at  the  sleeping 
pair  in  the  railway  carriage,  and  Mr.  Slope  is  not  the  man  to 
trouble  himself  with  such  thoughts  for  nothing.  He  is  pos- 
sessed of  more  than  average  abilities,  and  is  of  good  courage. 
Though  he  can  stoop  to  fawn,  and  stoop  low  indeed,  if  need 
be,  he  has  still  within  him  the  power  to  assume  the  tyrant ; 
and  with  the  power  he  has  certainly  the  wish.  His  acquire- 
ments are  not  of  the  highest  order,  but  such  as  they  are  they 
are  completely  under  control,  and  he  knows  the  use  of  them. 
He  is  gifted  with  a  certain  kind  of  pulpit  eloquence,  not  likely 
indeed  to  be  persuasive  with  men,  but  powerful  with  the 
softer  sex.  In  his  sermons  he  deals  greatly  in  denunciations, 
excites  the  minds  of  his  weaker  hearers  with  a  not  unpleas- 
ant terror,  and  leaves  an  impression  on  their  minds  that  all 
mankind  are  in  a  perilous  state,  and  all  womankind,  too,  ex- 
cept those  who  attend  regularly  to  the  evening  lectures  in 
Baker  Street.  His  looks  and  tones  are  extremely  severe,  so 
much  so  that  one  cannot  but  fancy  that  he  regards  the  greater 
part  of  the  world  as  being  infinitely  too  bad  for  his  care.  As 
he  walks  through  the  streets,  his  very  face  denotes  his  horror 
of  the  world's  wickedness ;  and  there  is  always  an  anathema 
lurking  in  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

In  doctrine,  he,  like  his  patron,  is  tolerant  of  dissent,  if  so 
strict  a  mind  can  be  called  tolerant  of  anything.  With  Wes- 
leyan-Methodists  he  has  something  in  common,  but  his  soul 
trembles  in  agony  at  the  iniquities  of  the  Puseyites.  His 
aversion  is  carried  to  things  outward  as  well  as  inward.  His 
gall  rises  at  a  new  church  with  a  high  pitched  roof;  a  full- 
breasted  black  silk  waistcoat  is  with  him  a  symbol  of  Satan ; 
and  a  profane  jest-book  would  not,  in  his  view,  more  foully 
desecrate  the  church  seat  of  a  Christian,  than  a  book  of  prayer 
printed  with  red  letters,  and  ornamented  with  a  cross  on  the 
back.     Most  active  clergv-men  have  their  hobby,  and  Sunday 

27 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

observances  are  his.  Sunday,  however,  is  a  word  which 
never  pollutes  his  mouth — it  is  always  "the  Sabbath."  The 
"desecration  of  the  Sabbath,"  as  he  delights  to  call  it,  is  to 
him  meat  and  drink : — he  thrives  upon  that  as  policemen  do 
on  the  general  evil  habits  of  the  community.  It  is  the  loved 
subject  of  all  his  evening  discourses,  the  source  of  all  his 
eloquence,  the  secret  of  all  his  power  over  the  female  heart. 
To  him  the  revelation  of  God  appears  only  in  that  one  law 
given  for  Jewish  observance.  To  him  the  mercies  of  our 
Saviour  speak  in  vain,  to  him  in  vain  has  been  preached  that 
sermon  which  fell  from  divine  lips  on  the  mountain — "Blessed 
are  the  meek,  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth" — "Blessed  are 
the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy."  To  him  the  New 
Testament  is  comparatively  of  little  moment,  for  from  it  can 
he  draw  no  fresh  authority  for  that  dominion  which  he  loves 
to  exercise  over  at  least  a  seventh  part  of  man's  allotted  time 
here  below. 

Mr.  Slope  is  tall,  and  not  ill  made.  His  feet  and  hands  are 
large,  as  has  ever  been  the  case  with  all  his  family,  but  he  has 
a  broad  chest  and  wide  shoulders  to  carry  off  these  excres- 
cences, and  on  the  whole  his  figure  is  good.  His  counte- 
nance, however,  is  not  specially  prepossessing.  His  hair  is 
lank,  and  of  a  dull  pale  reddish  hue.  It  is  always  formed 
into  three  straight  lump  masses,  each  brushed  with  admirable 
precision,  and  cemented  with  much  grease ;  two  of  them  ad- 
here closely  to  the  sides  of  his  face,  and  the  other  lies  at 
right  angles  above  them.  He  wears  no  whiskers,  and  is  al- 
ways punctiliously  shaven.  His  face  is  nearly  of  the  same 
colour  as  his  hair,  though  perhaps  a  little  redder :  it  is  not 
unlike  beef, — beef,  however,  one  would  say,  of  a  bad  quality. 
His  forehead  is  capacious  and  high,  but  square  and  heavy, 
and  unpleasantly  shining.  His  mouth  is  large,  though  his 
lips  are  thin  and  bloodless ;  and  his  big,  prominent,  pale 
brown  eyes  inspire  anything  but  confidence.  His  nose,  how- 
ever, is  his  redeeming  feature :  it  is  pronounced  straight  and 
well-formed;  though  I  myself  should  have  liked  it  better  did 
it  not  possess  a  somewhat  spongy,  porous  appearance,  as 
though  it  had  been  cleverly  formed  out  of  a  red  coloured 
cork. 

I  never  could  endure  to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Slope.     A 

28 


THE   BISHOP'S    CHAPLAIN. 

cold,  clammy  perspiration  always  exudes  from  him,  the  small 
drops  are  ever  to  be  seen  standing  on  his  brow,  and  his 
friendly  grasp  is  unpleasant. 

Such  is  Mr.  Slope — such  is  the  man  who  has  suddenly 
fallen  into  the  midst  of  Barchester  Close,  and  is  destined 
there  to  assume  the  station  which  has  heretofore  been  filled 
by  the  son  of  the  late  bishop.  Think,  oh,  my  meditative 
reader,  what  an  associate  we  have  here  for  those  comfortable 
prebendaries,  those  gentlemanlike  clerical  doctors,  those 
happy  well-used  well-fed  minor  canons,  who  have  grown  into 
existence  at  Barchester  under  the  kindly  wings  of  Bishop 
Grantly ! 

But  not  as  a  mere  associate  for  these  does  Mr.  Slope  travel 
down  to  Barchester  with  the  bishop  and  his  wife.  He  intends 
to  be,  if  not  their  master,  at  least  the  chief  among  them.  He 
intends  to  lead,  and  to  have  followers ;  he  intends  to  hold  the 
purse  strings  of  the  diocese,  and  draw  round  him  an  obedient 
herd  of  his  poor  and  hungry  brethren. 

And  here  we  can  hardly  fail  to  draw  a  comparison  between 
the  archdeacon  and  our  new  private  chaplain  ;  and  despite  the 
manifold  faults  of  the  former,  one  can  hardly  fail  to  make  it 
much  to  his  advantage. 

Both  men  are  eager,  much  too  eager,  to  support  and  in- 
crease the  power  of  their  order.  Both  are  anxious  that  the 
world  should  be  priest-governed,  though  they  have  probably 
never  confessed  so  much,  even  to  themselves.  Both  begrudge 
any  other  kind  of  dominion  held  by  man  over  man.  Dr. 
Grantly,  if  he  admits  the  Queen's  supremacy  in  things  spir- 
itual, only  admits  it  as  being  due  to  the  quasi  priesthood  con- 
veyed in  the  consecrating  qualities  of  her  coronation ;  and  he 
regards  things  temporal  as  being  by  their  nature  subject  to 
those  which  are  spiritual.  Mr.  Slope's  ideas  of  sacerdotal 
rule  are  of  quite  a  different  class.  He  cares  nothing,  one 
way  or  the  other,  for  the  Queen's  supremacy ;  these  to  his 
ears  are  empty  words,  meaning  nothing.  Forms  he  regards 
but  little,  and  such  titular  expressions  as  supremacy,  conse- 
cration, ordination,  and  the  like,  convey  of  themselves  no  sig- 
nificance to  him.  Let  him  be  supreme  who  can.  The  tempo- 
ral king,  judge,  or  gaoler,  can  work  but  on  the  bodv.  The 
spiritual  master,  if  he  have  the  necessary  gifts,  and  can  duly 

29 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

use  them,  has  a  wider  field  of  empire.  He  works  upon  the 
soul.  If  he  can  make  himself  be  believed,  he  can  be  all  pow- 
erful over  those  who  listen.  If  he  be  careful  to  meddle  with 
none  who  are  too  strong  in  intellect,  or  too  weak  in  flesh,  he 
may  indeed  be  supreme.  And  such  was  the  ambition  of  Mr. 
Slope. 

Dr.  Grantly  interfered  very  little  with  the  worldly  doings  of 
those  who  were  in  any  way  subject  to  him.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  he  omitted  to  notice  misconduct  among  his  clergy, 
immorality  in  his  parish,  or  omissions  in  his  family ;  but  he 
was  not  anxious  to  do  so  where  the  necessity  could  be  avoided. 
He,  was  not  troubled  with  a  propensity  to  be  curious,  and  as 
long  as  those  around  him  were  tainted  with  no  heretical  lean- 
ing towards  dissent,  as  long  as  they  fully  and  freely  admitted 
the  efficacy  of  Mother  Church,  he  was  willing  that  that 
mother  should  be  merciful  and  affectionate,  prone  to  indul- 
gence, and  unwilling  to  chastise.  He  himself  enjoyed  the 
good  things  of  this  world,  and  liked  to  let  it  be  known  that 
he  did  so.  He  cordially  despised  any  brother  rector  who 
thought  harm  of  dinner-parties,  or  dreaded  the  dangers  of  a 
moderate  claret-jug;  consequently  dinner-parties  and  claret- 
jugs  were  common  in  the  diocese.  He  liked  to  give  laws 
and  to  be  obeyed  in  them  implicitly,  but  he  endeavoured  that 
his  ordinances  should  be  within  the  compass  of  the  man,  and 
not  unpalatable  to  the  gentleman.  He  had  ruled  among  his 
clerical  neighbours  now  for  sundry  years,  and  as  he  had 
maintained  his  power  without  becoming  unpopular,  it  may  be 
presumed  that  he  had  exercised  some  wisdom. 

Of  Mr.  Slope's  conduct  much  cannot  be  said,  as  his  grand 
career  is  yet  to  commence ;  but  it  may  be  premised  that  his 
tastes  will  be  very  different  from  those  of  the  archdeacon. 
He  conceives  it  to  be  his  duty  to  know  all  the  private  doings 
and  desires  of  the  flock  entrusted  to  his  care.  From  the 
poorer  classes  he  exacts  an  unconditional  obedience  to  set 
rules  of  conduct,  and  if  disobeyed  he  has  recourse,  like  his 
great  ancestor,  to  the  fulminations  of  an  Ernulfus :  "Thou 
shalt  be  damned  in  thy  going  in  and  in  thv  coming  out — in 
thy  eating  and  thy  drinking,"  &c.  &c.  &c.  With  the  rich,  ex- 
perience has  already  taught  him  that  a  different  line  of  action 
is  necessary.     Men  in  the  upper  walks  of  life  do  not  mind 

30 


A    MORNING   VISIT. 

being  cursed,  and  the  women,  presuming  that  it  be  done  in 
delicate  phrase,  rather  like  it.  But  he  has  not,  therefore, 
given  up  so  important  a  portion  of  believing  Christians.  With 
the  men,  indeed,  he  is  generally  at  variance ;  they  are  hard- 
ened sinners,  on  whom  the  voice  of  the  priestly  charmer  too 
often  falls  in  vain ;  but  with  the  ladies,  old  and  young,  firm 
and  frail,  devout  and  dissipated,  he  is,  as  he  conceives,  all 
powerful.  He  can  reprove  faults  with  so  much  flattery,  and 
utter  censure  in  so  caressing  a  manner,  that  the  female  heart, 
if  it  glow  with  a  spark  of  low  church  susceptibility,  cannot 
withstand  him.  In  many  houses  he  is  thus  an  admired  guest : 
the  husbands,  for  their  wives'  sake,  are  fain  to  admit  him; 
and  when  once  admitted  it  is  not  easy  to  shake  him  ofif.  He 
has,  however,  a  pawing,  greasy  way  with  him,  which  does  not 
endear  him  to  those  who  do  not  value  him  for  their  souls' 
sake,  and  he  is  not  a  man  to  make  himself  at  once  popular  in  a 
large  circle  such  as  is  now  likely  to  surround  him  at  Bar- 
chester. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A    MORNING    VISIT. 

IT  was  known  that  Dr.  Proudie  would  immediately  have  to 
reappoint  to  the  wardenship  of  the  hospital  under  the 
act  of  Parliament  to  which  allusion  has  been  made;  but  no 
one  imagined  that  any  choice  was  left  to  him — no  one  for  a 
moment  thought  that  he  could  appoint  any  other  than  Mr. 
Harding.  Mr.  Harding  himself,  when  he  heard  how  the 
matter  had  been  settled,  without  troubling  himself  much  on 
the  subject,  considered  it  as  certain  that  he  would  go  back  to 
his  pleasant  house  and  garden.  And  though  there  would  be 
much  that  was  melancholy,  nay,  almost  heartrending,  in  such 
a  return,  he  still  was  glad  that  it  was  to  be  so.  His  daughter 
might  probably  be  persuaded  to  return  there  with  him.  She 
had,  indeed,  all  but  promised  to  do  so,  though  she  still  enter- 
tained an  idea  that  that  greatest  of  mortals,  that  important 
atom  of  humanity,  that  little  god  upon  earth,  Johnny  Bold  her 
baby,  ought  to  have  a  house  of  his  own  over  his  head. 

31 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Such  being  the  state  of  Mr.  Harding's  mind  in  the  matter, 
he  did  not  feel  any  pecuHar  personal  interest  in  the  appoint- 
ment of  Dr.  Proudie  to  the  bishopric.  He,  as  well  as  others 
at  Barchester,  regretted  that  a  man  should  be  sent  among 
them  who,  they  were  aware,  was  not  of  their  way  of  think- 
ing; but  Mr.  Harding  himself  was  not  a  bigoted  man  on 
points  of  church  doctrine,  and  he  was  quite  prepared  to  wel- 
come Dr.  Proudie  to  Barchester  in  a  graceful  and  becoming 
manner.  He  had  nothing  to  seek  and  nothing  to  fear ;  he  felt 
that  it  behoved  him  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his  bishop,  and 
he  did  not  anticipate  any  obstacle  that  would  prevent  it. 

In  such  a  frame  of  mind  he  proceeded  to  pay  his  respects 
at  the  palace  the  second  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  bishop 
and  his  chaplain.  But  he  did  not  go  alone.  Dr.  Grantly 
proposed  to  accompany  him,  and  Mr.  Harding  was  not  sorry 
to  have  a  companion,  who  would  remove  from  his  shoulders 
the  burden  of  the  conversation  in  such  an  interview.  In  the 
afifair  of  the  consecration  Dr.  Grantly  had  been  introduced  to 
the  bishop,  and  Mr.  Harding  had  also  been  there.  He  had, 
however,  kept  himself  in  the  background,  and  he  was  now  to 
be  presented  to  the  great  man  for  the  first  time. 

The  archdeacon's  feelings  were  of  a  much  stronger  nature. 
He  was  not  exactly  the  man  to  overlook  his  own  slighted 
claims,  or  to  forgive  the  preference  shown  to  another.  Dr. 
Proudie  was  playing  Venus  to  his  Juno,  and  he  was  prepared 
to  wage  an  internecine  war  against  the  owner  of  the  wished- 
for  apple,  and  all  his  satellites,  private  chaplains,  and  others. 

Nevertheless,  it  behoved  him  also  to  conduct  himself 
towards  the  intruder  as  an  old  archdeacon  should  conduct 
himself  to  an  incoming  bishop  ;  and  though  he  was  well  aware 
of  all  Dr.  Proudie's  abominable  opinions  as  regarded  dissent- 
ers, church  reform,  the  hebdomadal  council,  and  such  like; 
though  he  disliked  the  man,  and  hated  the  doctrines,  still  he 
was  prepared  to  show  respect  to  the  station  of  the  bishop. 
So  he  and  Mr.  Harding  called  together  at  the  palace. 

His  lordship  was  at  home,  and  the  two  visitors  were  shown 
through  the  accustomed  hall  into  the  well-known  room,  where 
the  good  old  bishop  used  to  sit.  The  furniture  had  been 
bought  at  a  valuation,  and  every  chair  and  table,  every  book- 
shelf against  the  wall,  and  every  square  in  the  carpet,  was  as 

32 


A    MORNING   VISIT. 

well  known  to  each  of  them  as  their  own  bedrooms.  Never- 
theless they  at  once  felt  that  they  were  strangers  there.  The 
furniture  was  for  the  most  part  the  same,  yet  the  place  had 
been  metamorphosed.  A  new  sofa  had  been  introduced,  a 
horrid  chintz  affair,  most  unprelatical  and  almost  irreligious : 
such  a  sofa  as  never  yet  stood  in  the  study  of  any  decent  high 
church  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England.  The  old  cur- 
tains had  also  given  way.  They  had,  to  be  sure,  become 
dingy,  and  that  which  had  been  originally  a  rich  and  goodly 
ruby  had  degenerated  into  a  reddish  brown.  Mr.  Harding, 
however,  thought  the  old  reddish  brown  much  preferable  to 
the  gaudy  buff-coloured  trumpery  moreen  which  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  deemed  good  enough  for  her  husband's  own 
room  in  the  provincial  city  of  Barchester. 

Our  friends  found  Dr.  Proudie  sitting  on  the  old  bishop's 
chair,  looking  very  nice  in  his  new  apron ;  they  found,  too, 
Mr.  Slope  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  persuasive  and  eager, 
just  as  the  archdeacon  used  to  stand ;  but  on  the  sofa  they 
also  found  Mrs.  Proudie,  an  innovation  for  which  a  precedent 
might  in  vain  be  sought  in  all  the  annals  of  the  Barchester 
bishopric ! 

There  she  was,  however,  and  they  could  only  make  the  best 
of  her.  The  introductions  were  gone  through  in  much  form. 
The  archdeacon  shook  hands  with  the  bishop,  and  named  Mr. 
Harding,  who  received  such  an  amount  of  greeting  as  was 
due  from  a  bishop  to  a  precentor.  His  lordship  then  present- 
ed them  to  his  lady  wife ;  the  archdeacon  first,  with  archi- 
diaconal  honours,  and  then  the  precentor  with  diminished 
parade.  After  this  Mr.  Slope  presented  himself.  The 
bishop,  it  is  true,  did  mention  his  name,  and  so  did  Mrs. 
Proudie  too,  in  a  louder  tone ;  but  Mr.  Slope  took  upon  him- 
self the  chief  burden  of  his  own  introduction.  He  had  great 
pleasure  in  making  himself  acquainted  with  Dr.  Grantly;  he 
had  heard  much  of  the  archdeacon's  good  works  in  that  part 
of  the  diocese  in  which  his  duties  as  archdeacon  had  been  ex- 
ercised (thus  purposely  ignoring  the  archdeacon's  hitherto 
unlimited  dominion  over  the  diocese  at  large).  He  was 
aware  that  his  lordship  depended  greatly  on  the  assistance 
which  Dr.  Grantly  would  be  able  to  give  him  in  that  portion 
of  his  diocese.     He  then  thrust  out  his  hand,  and  grasping 

'  33 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

that  of  his  new  foe,  bedewed  it  unmercifully.  Dr.  Grantl)' 
in  return  bowed,  looked  stiff,  contracted  his  eyebrows,  and 
wiped  his  hand  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  Nothing 
abashed,  Mr,  Slope  then  noticed  the  precentor,  and  descended 
to  the  grade  of  the*lower  clergy.  He  gave  him  a  squeeze  of 
the  hand,  damp  indeed,  but  affectionate,  and  was  very  glad 

to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mr. ;  oh  yes,  Mr.  Harding; 

he  had  not  exactly  caught  the  name — "Precentor  in  the  cathe- 
dral," surmised  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Harding  confessed  that  such 
was  the  humble  sphere  of  his  work.  "Some  parish  duty  as 
well,"  suggested  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Harding  acknowledged  the 
diminutive  incumbency  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  Mr.  Slope  then 
left  him  alone,  having  condescended  sufficiently,  and  joined 
the  conversation  among  the  higher  powers. 

There  were  four  persons  there,  each  of  whom  considered 
himself  the  most  important  personage  in  the  diocese;  himself, 
indeed,  or  herself,  as  Mrs.  Proudie  was  one  of  them ;  and 
with  such  a  difference  of  opinion  it  was  not  probable  that 
they  would  get  on  pleasantly  together.  The  bishop  himself 
actually  wore  the  visible  apron,  and  trusted  mainly  to  that — 
to  that  and  his  title,  both  being  facts  which  could  not  be  over- 
looked. The  archdeacon  knew  his  subject,  and  really  under- 
stood the  business  of  bishoping,  which  the  others  did  not ; 
and  this  was  his  strong  ground.  Mrs.  Proudie  had  her  sex 
to  back  her,  and  her  habit  of  command,  and  was  nothing 
daunted  by  the  high  tone  of  Dr.  Grantly's  face  and  figure. 
Mr.  Slope  had  only  himself  and  his  own  courage  and  tact  to 
depend  on,  but  he  nevertheless  was  perfectly  self-assured,  and 
did  not  doubt  but  that  he  should  soon  get  the  better  of  weak 
men  who  trusted  so  much  to  externals,  as  both  bishop  and 
archdeacon  appeared  to  do. 

"Do  you  reside  in  Barchester,  Dr.  Grantly?"  asked  the  lady 
with  her  sweetest  smile. 

Dr.  Grantly  explained  that  he  lived  in  his  own  parish  of 
Plumstead  Episcopi,  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city.  Whereupon 
the  lady  hoped  that  the  distance  was  not  too  great  for  countrv 
visiting,  as  she  should  be  so  glad  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Mrs.  Grantly.  She  would  take  the  earliest  opportunity,  after 
the  arrival  of  her  horses  at  Barchester;  their  horses  were  at 
present  in  London ;  their  horses  were  not  immediately  coming 

34 


A   MORNING  VISIT. 

down,  as  the  bishop  would  be  obliged,  in  a  few  days,  to  re- 
turn to  town.  Dr.  Grantly  was  no  doubt  aware  that  the 
bishop  was  at  present  much  called  upon  by  the  "University 
Improvement  Committee :"  indeed,  the  Committee  could  not 
well  proceed  without  him,  as  their  final  report  had  now  to  be 
drawn  up.  The  bishop  had  also  to  prepare  a  scheme  for"the 
"Manufacturing-  Towns  Morning  and  Evening  Sunday 
School  Society,"  of  which  he  was  a  patron,  or  president,  or 
director,  and  therefore  the  horses  would  not  come  down  to 
Barchester  at  present ;  but  whenever  the  horses  did  con've 
down,  she  would  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  calling  at 
Plumstead  Episcopi,  providing  the  distance  was  not  too  great 
for  country  visiting. 

The  archdeacon  made  his  fifth  bow :  he  had  made  one  at 
each  mention  of  the  horses ;  and  promised  that  Mrs.  Grantly 
would  do  herself  the  honour  of  calling  at  the  palace  on  an 
early  day.  Mrs.  Proudie  declared  that  she  would  be  de- 
lighted :  she  hadn't  liked  to  ask,  not  being  quite  sure  whether 
Mrs.  Grantly  had  horses ;  besides,  the  distance  might  have 
been,  &c.  &c. 

Dr.  Grantly  again  bowed,  but  said  nothing.  He  could  have 
bought  every  individual  possession  of  the  whole  family  of  the 
Proudies,  and  have  restored  them  as  a  gift,  without  much 
feeling  the  loss ;  and  had  kept  a  separate  pair  of  horses  for 
the  exclusive  use  of  his  wife  since  the  day  of  his  marriage : 
whereas  Mrs.  Proudie  had  been  hitherto  jobbed  about  the 
streets  of  London  at  so  much  a  month  during  the  season ; 
and  at  other  times  had  managed  to  walk,  or  hire  a  smart  fly 
from  the  livery  stables. 

"Are  the  arrangements  with  reference  to  the  Sabbath-day 
schools  generally  pretty  good  in  your  archdeaconry?"  asked 
Mr.  Slope. 

"Sabbath-day  schools !"  repeated  the  archdeacon  with  an 
affectation  of  surprise.  "Upon  my  word,  I  can't  tell ;  it  de- 
pends mainly  on  the  parson's  wife  and  daughters.  There  is 
none  at  Plumstead." 

This  was  almost  a  fib  on  the  part  of  the  archdeacon,  for 
Mrs.  Grantly  has  a  very  nice  school.  To  be  sure  it  is  not  a 
Sunday  school  exclusively,  and  is  not  so  designated ;  but  that 
exemplary  lady  always  attends  there  an  hour  before  church, 

35 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  hears  the  children  say  their  catechism,  and  sees  that  they 
are  clean  and  tidy  for  church,  with  their  hands  washed,  and 
their  shoes  tied ;  and  Grisel  and  Florinda,  her  daughters, 
carry  thither  a  basket  of  large  buns,  baked  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  distribute  them  to  all  the  children  not  espe- 
cially under  disgrace,  which  buns  are  carried  home  after 
church  with  considerable  content,  and  eaten  hot  at  tea,  being 
then  split  and  toasted.  The  children  of  Plumstead  would 
indeed  open  their  eyes  if  they  heard  their  venerated  pastor 
declare  that  there  was  no  Sunday  school  in  his  parish. 

Mr.  Slope  merely  opened  his  eyes  wider,  and  slightly 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  not,  however,  prepared  to 
give  up  his  darling  project. 

"I  fear  there  is  a  great  deal  of  Sabbath  travelling  here," 
said  he.  "On  looking  at  the  'Bradshaw,'  I  see  that  there  are 
three  trains  in  and  three  out  every  Sabbath.  Could  nothing 
be  done  to  induce  the  company  to  withdraw  them?  Don't 
you  think.  Dr.  Grantly,  that  a  little  energy  might  diminish 
the  evil?" 

"Not  being  a  director,  I  really  can't  say.  But  if  you  can 
withdraw  the  passengers,  the  company,  I  dare  say,  will  with- 
draw the  trains,"  said  the  doctor.  "It's  merely  a  question  of 
dividends." 

"But  surely,  Dr.  Grantly,"  said  the  lady,  "surely  we  should 
look  at  it  differently.  You  and  I,  for  instance,  in  our  posi- 
tion :  surely  we  should  do  all  that  we  can  to  control  so  griev- 
ous a  sin.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Harding?"  and  she 
turned  to  the  precentor,  who  was  sitting  mute  and  un- 
happy. 

Mr.  Harding  thought  that  all  porters  and  stokers,  guards, 
breaksmen,  and  pointsmen  ought  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
going  to  church,  and  he  hoped  that  they  all  had. 

"But  surely,  surely,"  continued  Mrs.  Proudie,  "surely  that 
is  not  enough.  Surely  that  will  not  secure  such  an  observ- 
ance of  the  Sabbath  as  we  are  taught  to  conceive  is  not 
only  expedient  but  indispensable  ;  surely " 

Come  what  come  might,  Dr.  Grantly  was  not  to  be  forced 
into  a  dissertation  on  a  point  of  doctrine  with  Mrs.  Proudie, 
nor  yet  with  Mr.  Slope ;  so  without  much  ceremony  he  turned 
his  back  upon  the  sofa,  and  began  to  hope  that  Dr.  Proudie 

36 


A    MORNING   VISIT. 

had  found  the  palace  repairs  had  been  such  as  to  meet  his 
wishes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  his  lordship ;  upon  the  whole  he  thought 
so — upon  the  whole,   he  didn't  know  that  there   was  much 

ground  for  complaint ;  the  architect,  perhaps,  might  have 

but  his  double,  Mr.  Slope,  who  had  sidled  over  to  the  bishop's 
chair,  would  not  allow  his  lordship  to  finish  his  ambiguous 
speech. 

"There  is  one  point  I  would  like  to  mention,  Mr.  Arch- 
deacon. His  lordship  asked  me  to  step  through  the  premises, 
and  I  see  that  the  stalls  in  the  second  stable  are  not  perfect." 

"Why — there's  standing  there  for  a  dozen  horses,"  said  the 
archdeacon. 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  the  other ;  "indeed,  I've  no  doubt  of  it ; 
but:  visitors,  you  know,  often  require  so  much  accommoda- 
tion. There  are  so  many  of  the  bishop's  relatives  who  always 
bring  their  own  horses." 

Dr.  Grantly  promised  that  due  provision  for  the  relatives' 
horses  should  be  made,  as  far  at  least  as  the  extent  of  the 
original  stable  building  would  allow.  He  would  himself  com- 
municate with  the  architect.  .       • 

"And  the  coach-house,  Dr.  Grantly,"  continued  Mr.  Slope ; 
"there  is  really  hardly  room  for  a  second  carriage  in  the  large 
coach-house,  and  the  smaller  one,  of  course,  holds  only 
one." 

"And  the  gas,"  chimed  in  the  lady ;  "there  is  no  gas 
through  the  house,  none  whatever,  but  in  the  kitchen  and 
passages.  Surely  the  palace  should  have  been  fitted  through 
with  pipes  for  gas,  and  hot  water  too.  There  is  no  hot  water 
laid  on  anywhere  above  the  ground-floor ;  surely  there  should 
be  the  means  of  getting  hot  water  in  the  bed-rooms  without 
having  it  brought  in  jugs  from  the  kitchen." 

The  bishop  had  a  decided  opinion  that  there  should  be  pipes 
for  hot  water.  Hot  water  was  very  essential  for  the  comfort 
of  the  palace.  It  was,  indeed,  a  requisite  in  any  decent  gen- 
tleman's house. 

Mr.  Slope  had  remarked  that  the  coping  on  the  garden  wall 
was  in  many  places  imperfect. 

Mrs.  Proudie  had  discovered  a  large  hole,  evidently  the 
work  of  rats,  in  the  servants'  hall. 

37 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

The  bishop  expressed  an  utter  detestation  of  rats.  There 
was  nothing,  he  believed,  in  this  world,  that  he  so  much  hated 
as  a  rat. 

Mr.  Slope  had,  moreover,  observed  that  the  locks  of  the 
outhouses  were  very  imperfect :  he  might  specify  the  coal- 
cellar,  and  the  wood-house. 

Mrs.  Proudie  had  also  seen  that  those  on  the  doors  of  the 
servants'  bedrooms  were  in  an  equally  bad  condition ;  indeed 
the  locks  all  through  the  house  were  old-fashioned  and  un- 
serviceable. 

The  bishop  thought  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  a  good 
lock,  and  quite  as  much  on  the  key.  He  had  observed  that 
the  fault  very  often  lay  with  the  key,  especially  if  the  wards 
were  in  any  way  twisted. 

Mr.  Slope  was  going  on  with  his  catalogue  of  grievances, 
when  he  was  somewhat  loudly  interrupted  by  the  archdeacon, 
who  succeeded  in  explaining  that  the  diocesan  architect,  or 
rather  his  foreman,  was  the  person  to  be  addressed  on  such 
subjects;  and  that  he.  Dr.  Grantly,  had  inquired  as  to  the 
comfort  of  the  palace,  merely  as  a  point  of  compliment.  He 
was  sorry,  however,  that  so  many  things  had  been  found 
amiss :  and  then  he  rose  from  his  chair  to  escape. 

Mrs.  Proudie,  though  she  had  contrived  to  lend  her  assist- 
ance in  recapitulating  the  palatial  dilapidations,  had  not  on 
that  account  given  up  her  hold  of  Mr,  Harding,  nor  ceased 
from  her  cross-examinations  as  to  the  iniquity  of  Sabbatical 
amusements.  Over  and  over  again  had  she  thrown  out  her 
"Surely,  surely,"  at  Mr.  Harding's  devoted  head,  and  ill  had 
that  gentleman  been  able  to  parry  the  attack. 

He  had  never  before  found  himself  subjected  to  such  a  nui- 
sance. Ladies  hitherto,  when  they  had  consulted  him  on  re- 
ligious subjects,  had  listened  to  what  he  might  choose  to  say 
with  some  deference,  and  had  differed,  if  they  differed,  in 
silence.  But  Mrs.  Proudie  interrogated  him,  and  then  lec- 
tured. "Neither  thou,  nor  thy  son,  nor  thy  daughter,  nor  thy 
man  servant,  nor  thv  maid  servant,"  said  she,  impressively, 
and  more  than  once,  as  though  Mr.  Harding  had  forgotten 
the  words.  She  shook  her  finger  at  him  as  she  quoted  the 
favourite  law,  as  though  menacing  him  with  punishment ;  and 
then  called  upon  him  categorically  to  state  whether  he  did 

"    38 


A   MORNING   VISIT. 

not  think  that  travelling  on  the  Sabbath  was  an  abomination 
and  a  desecration. 

Mr.  Harding  had  never  been  so  hard  pressed  in  his  life. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  to  rebuke  the  lady  for  presuming  so  to 
talk  to  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman  many  years  her  senior ; 
but  he  recoiled  from  the  idea  of  scolding  the  bishop's  wife,  in 
the  bishop's  presence,  on  his  first  visit  to  the  palace ;  more- 
over, to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  somewhat  afraid  of  her.  She, 
seeing  him  sit  silent  and  absorbed,  by  no  means  refrained 
from  the  attack. 

"I  hope,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  she,  shaking  her  head  slowly 
and  solemnly,  "I  hope  you  will  not  leave  me  to  think  that  you 
approve  of  Sabbath  travelling,"  and  she  looked  a  look  of  un- 
utterable meaning  into  his  eyes. 

There  was  no  standing  this,  for  Mr.  Slope  was  now  looking 
at  him,  and  so  was  the  bishop,  and  so  was  the  archdeacon, 
who  had  completed  his  adieux  on  that  side  of  the  room.  Mr. 
Harding  therefore  got  up  also,  and  putting  out  his  hand  to 
Mrs.  Proudie  said:  'Tf  you  will  come  to  St.  Cuthbert's 
some  Sunday,  I  will  preach  you  a  sermon  on  that  sub- 
ject." 

And  so  the  archdeacon  and  the  precentor  took  their  de- 
parture, bowing  low  to  the  lady,  shaking  hands  with  the  lord, 
and  escaping  from  Mr.  Slope  in  the  best  manner  each  could. 
Mr.  Harding  was  again  maltreated ;  but  Dr.  Grantly  swore 
deeply  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  that  no  earthly  consideration 
should  ever  again  induce  him  to  touch  the  paw  of  that  impure 
and  filthy  animal. 

And  now  had  I  the  pen  of  a  mighty  poet,  would  I  sing  in 
epic  verse  the  noble  wrath  of  the  archdeacon.  The  palace 
steps  descend  to  a  broad  gravel  sweep,  from  whence  a  small 
gate  opens  out  into  the  street,  very  near  the  covered  gateway 
leading  into  the  close.  The  road  from  the  palace  door  turns 
to  the  left,  through  the  spacious  gardens,  and  terminates  on 
the  London-road,  half  a  mile  from  the  cathedral. 

Till  they  had  both  passed  this  small  gate  and  entered  the 
close,  neither  of  them  spoke  a  word ;  but  the  precentor  clearly 
saw  from  his  companion's  face  that  a  tornado  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, nor  was  he  himself  inclined  to  stop  it.  Though  by 
nature  far  less  irritable  than  the  archdeacon,  even  he  was 

39 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

angry :  he  even — that  mild  and  courteous  man — was  inclined 
to  express  himself  in  anything  but  courteous  terms. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

WAR. 

GOOD  heavens !"  exclaimed  the  archdeacon,  as  he  placed 
his  foot  on  the  gravel  walk  of  the  close,  and  raising 
his  hat  with  one  hand,  passed  the  other  somewhat  violently 
over  his  now  grizzled  locks ;  smoke  issued  forth  from  the  up- 
lifted beaver  as  it  were  a  cloud  of  wrath,  and  the  safety-valve 
of  his  anger  opened,  and  emitted  a  visible  steam,  preventing 
positive  explosion  and  probable  apoplexy.  "Good  heavens !" 
— and  the  archdeacon  looked  up  to  the  gray  pinnacles  of  the 
cathedral  tower,  making  a  mute  appeal  to  that  still  living 
witness  which  had  looked  down  on  the  doings  of  so  many 
bishops  of  Barchester. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  like  that  Mr.  Slope,"  said  Mr. 
Harding. 

"Like  him !"  roared  the  archdeacon,  standing  still  for  a 
moment  to  give  more  force  to  his  voice ;  "like  him !"  All  the 
ravens  of  the  close  cawed  their  assent.  The  old  bells  of  the 
tower,  in  chiming  the  hour,  echoed  the  words ;  and  the  swal- 
lows flying  out  from  their  nests  mutely  expressed  a  similar 
opinion.  Like  Mr.  Slope !  Why  no,  it  was  not  very  probable 
that  any  Barchester-bred  living  thing  should  like  Mr.  Slope ! 

"Nor  Mrs.  Proudie  either,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

The  archdeacon  hereupon  forgot  himself.  I  will  not  follow 
his  example,  nor  shock  my  readers  by  transcribing  the  term 
in  which  he  expressed  his  feeling  as  to  the  lady  who  had  been 
named.  The  ravens  and  the  last  lingering  notes  of  the  clock- 
bells  were  less  scrupulous,  and  repeated  in  corresponding 
echoes  the  very  improper  exclamation.  The  archdeacon  again 
raised  his  hat,  and  another  salutary  escape  of  steam  was 
effected. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  precentor  tried  to 
realise  the  fact  that  the  wife  of  a  bishop  of  Barchester  had 
been  thus  designated,  in  the  close  of  the  cathedral,  by  the  lips 
of  its  own  archdeacon :  but  he  could  not  do  it. 

40 


WAR. 

"The  bishop  seems  to  be  a  quiet  man  enough,"  suggested 
Mr.  Harding,  having  acknowledged  to  himself  his  own 
failure. 

"Idiot!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  who  for  the  nonce  was  not 
capable  of  more  than  such  spasmodic  attempts  at  utter- 
ance. 

"Well,  he  did  not  seem  very  bright,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
"and  yet  he  has  always  had  the  reputation  of  a  clever  man, 
I  suppose  he's  cautious  and  not  inclined  to  express  himself 
very  freely." 

The  new  bishop  of  Barchester  was  already  so  contemptible 
a  creature  in  Dr.  Grantly's  eyes,  that  he  could  not  condescend 
to  discuss  his  character.  He  was  a  puppet  to  be  played  by 
others ;  a  mere  wax  doll,  done  up  in  an  apron  and  a  shovel 
hat,  to  be  stuck  on  a  throne  or  elsewhere,  and  pulled  about 
by  wires  as  others  chose.  Dr.  Grantly  did  not  choose  to  let 
himself  down  low  enough  to  talk  about  Dr.  Proudie ;  but  he 
saw  that  he  would  have  to  talk  about  the  other  members  of 
his  household,  the  coadjutor  bishops,  who  had  brought  his 
lordship  down,  as  it  were,  in  a  box,  and  were  about  to  handle 
the  wires  as  they  willed.  This  in  itself  was  a  terrible  vexa- 
tion to  the  archdeacon.  Could  he  have  ignored  the  chaplain, 
and  have  fought  the  bishop,  there  would  have  been,  at  any 
rate,  nothing  degrading  in  such  a  contest.  Let  the  Queen 
make  whom  she  would  bishop  of  Barchester ;  a  man,  or  even 
an  ape,  when  once  a  bishop,  would  be  a  respectable  adversary, 
if  he  would  but  fight,  himself.  But  what  was  such  a  person 
as  Dr.  Grantly  to  do,  when  such  another  person  as  Mr.  Slope 
was  put  forward  as  his  antagonist  ? 

If  he,  our  archdeacon,  refused  the  combat,  Mr.  Slope  would 
walk  triumphant  over  the  field,  and  have  the  diocese  of  Bar- 
chester under  his  heel. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  archdeacon  accepted  as  his  enemy 
the  man  whom  the  new  puppet  bishop  put  before  him  as  such, 
he  would  have  to  talk  about  Mr.  Slope,  and  write  about  Mr. 
Slope,  and  in  all  matters  treat  with  Mr.  Slope,  as  a  being 
standing,  in  some  degree,  on  ground  similar  to  his  own.    He 

would  have  to  meet  Mr.  Slope ;  to  Bah !  the  idea  was 

sickening.     He  could  not  bring  himself  to  have  to  do  \Yith 
Mr.  Slope. 

41 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"He  is  the  most  thoroughly  bestial  creature  that  ever  I  set 
my  eyes  upon,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Who — the  bishop  ?"  asked  the  other,  innocently. 

"Bishop !  no — I'm  not  talking  about  the  bishop.  How  on 
earth  such  a  creature  got  ordained ! — they'll  ordain  anybody 
now,  I  know ;  but  he's  been  in  the  church  these  ten  years ; 
and  they  used  to  be  a  little  careful  ten  years  ago." 

"Oh !  you  mean  Mr.  Slope." 

"Did  you  ever  see  any  animal  less  like  a  gentleman  ?"  asked 
Dr.  Grantly. 

"I  can't  say  I  felt  myself  much  disposed  to  like  him." 

"Like  him !"  again  shouted  the  doctor,  and  the  assenting 
ravens  again  cawed  an  echo ;  "of  course,  you  don't  like  him : 
it's  not  a  question  of  liking.  But  what  are  we  to  do  with 
him?" 

"Do  with  him  ?"  asked  Mr.  Harding. 

"Yes — what  are  we  to  do  with  him  ?  How  are  we  to  treat 
him  ?  There  he  is,  and  there  he'll  stay.  He  has  put  his  foot 
in  that  palace,  and  he  will  never  take  it  out  again  till  he's 
driven.     How  are  we  to  get  rid  of  him  ?" 

"I  don't  suppose  he  can  do  us  much  harm." 

"Not  do  harm ! — Well,  I  think  you'll  find  yourself  of  a 
different  opinion  before  a  month  is  gone.  What  would  you 
say  now,  if  he  got  himself  put  into  the  hospital  ?  Would  that 
be  harm?" 

Mr.  Harding  mused  awhile,  and  then  said  he  didn't  think 
the  new  bishop  would  put  Mr.  Slope  into  the  hospital. 

"If  he  doesn't  put  him  there,  he'll  put  him  somewhere  else 
where  he'll  be  as  bad.  I  tell  you  that  man,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  will  be  Bishop  of  Barchester;"  and  again  Dr. 
Grantly  raised  his  hat,  and  rubbed  his  hand  thoughtfully  and 
sadly  over  his  head. 

"Impudent  scoundrel !"  he  continued  after  a  while.  "To 
dare  to  cross-examine  me  about  the  Sunday  schools  in  the  dio- 
cese, and  Sunday  travelling  too :  I  never  in  my  life  met  his 
equal  for  sheer  impudence.  Why,  he  must  have  thought  we 
were  two  candidates  for  ordination  !" 

"I  declare  I  thought  Mrs.  Proudie  was  the  worst  of  the 
two,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"When  a  woman  is  impertinent,  one  must  only  put  up  with 

42 


WAR. 

it,  and  keep  out  of  her  way  in  future ;  but  I  am  not  inclined 
to  put  up  with  Mr.  Slope.  'Sabbath  travelling!'"  and  the 
doctor  attempted  to  imitate  the  peculiar  drawl  of  the  man  he 
so  much  disliked  :  "  'Sabbath  travelling !'  Those  are  the  sort 
of  men  who  will  ruin  the  Church  of  England,  and  make  the 
profession  of  a  clergyman  disreputable.  It  is  not  the  dissent- 
ers or  the  papists  that  we  should  fear,  but  the  set  of  canting, 
low-bred  hypocrites  who  are  wriggling  their  way  in  among 
us ;  men  who  have  no  fixed  principle,  no  standard  ideas  of 
religion  or  doctrine,  but  who  take  up  some  popular  cry,  as  this 
fellow  has  done  about  'Sabbath  travelling.'  " 

Dr.  Grantly  did  not  again  repeat  the  question  aloud,  but  he 
did  so  constantly  to  himself,  "What  were  they  to  do  with 
Mr.  Slope  ?"  How  was  he  openly,  before  the  world,  to  show 
that  he  utterly  disapproved  of  and  abhorred  such  a  man? 

Hitherto  Barchester  had  escaped  the  taint  of  any  extreme 
rigour  of  church  doctrine.  The  clergymen  of  the  city  and 
neighbourhood,  though  very  well  inclined  to  promote  high- 
church  principles,  privileges,  and  prerogatives,  had  never 
committed  themselves  to  tendencies,  which  are  somewhat  too 
loosely  called  Puseyite  practices.  They  all  preached  in  their 
black  gowns,  as  their  fathers  had  done  before  them ;  they 
wore  ordinary  black  cloth  waistcoats ;  they  had  no  candles  on 
their  altars,  either  lighted  or  unlighted ;  they  made  no  private 
genuflexions,  and  were  contented  to  confine  themselves  to 
such  ceremonial  observances  as  had  been  in  vogue  for  the 
last  hundred  years.  The  services  were  decently  and  demurely 
read  in  their  parish  churches,  chanting  was  confined  to  the 
cathedral,  and  the  science  of  intoning  was  unknown.  One 
young  man  who  had  come  direct  from  Oxford  as  a  curate  to 
Plumstead  had,  after  the  lapse  of  two  or  three  Sundays,  made 
a  faint  attempt,  much  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  poorer  part 
of  the  congregation.  Dr.  Grantly  had  not  been  present  on 
the  occasion ;  but  Mrs.  Grantly,  who  had  her  own  opinion  on 
the  subject,  immediately  after  the  service  expressed  a  hope 
'that  the  young  gentleman  had  not  been  taken  ill,  and  ofifered 
to  send  him  all  kinds  of  condiments  supposed  to  be  good  for  a 
sore  throat.  After  that  there  had  been  no  more  intoning  at 
Plumstead  Episcopi. 

But  now  the  archdeacon  began  to  meditate  on  some  strong 

43 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

measures  of  absolute  opposition.  Dr.  Proudie  and  his  crew 
were  of  the  lowest  possible  order  of  Church  of  England 
clergymen,  and  therefore  it  behoved  him,  Dr.  Grantly,  to  be  ot 
the  very  highest.  Dr.  Proudie  would  abolish  all  forms  and 
ceremonies,  and  therefore  Dr.  Grantly  felt  the  sudden  neces- 
sity of  multiplying  them.  Dr.  Proudie  would  consent  to  de- 
prive the  church  of  all  collective  authority  and  rule,  and 
therefore  Dr.  Grantly  would  stand  up  for  the  full  power  of 
convocation,  and  the  renewal  of  all  its  ancient  privileges. 

It  was  true  that  he  could  not  himself  intone  the  service, 
but  he  could  procure  the  co-operation  of  any  number  of  gen- 
tleman-like curates  well  trained  in  the  mystery  of  doing  so. 
He  would  not  willingly  alter  his  own  fashion  of  dress,  but  he 
could  people  Barchester  with  young  clergymen  dressed  in 
the  longest  frocks,  and  in  the  highest-breasted  silk  waistcoats. 
He  certainly  was  not  prepared  to  cross  himself,  or  to  advocate 
the  real  presence ;  but,  without  going  this  length,  there  were 
various  observances,  by  adopting  which  he  could  plainly  show 
his  antipathy  to  such  men  as  Dr.  Proudie  and  Mr.  Slope. 

All  these  .things  passed  through  his  mind  as  he  paced  up 
and  down  the  close  with  Mr.  Harding.  War,  war,  interne- 
cine war  was  in  his  heart.  He  felt  that,  as  regarded  himself 
and  Mr.  Slope,  one  of  the  two  must  be  annihilated  as  far  as 
the  city  of  Barchester  was  concerned ;  and  he  did  not  intend 
to  give  way  until  there  was  not  left  to  him  an  inch  of  ground 
on  which  he  could  stand.  He  still  flattered  himself  that  he 
could  make  Barchester  too  hot  to  hold  Mr.  Slope,  and  he  had 
no  weakness  of  spirit  to  prevent  his  bringing  about  such  a 
consummation  if  it  were  in  his  power. 

"I  suppose  Susan  must  call  at  the  palace,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. 

"Yes,  she  shall  call  there ;  but  it  shall  be  once  and  once  only. 
I  dare  say  'the  horses'  won't  find  it  convenient  to  come  out  to 
Plumstead  very  soon,  and  when  that  once  is  done  the  matter 
may  drop." 

"I  don't  suppose  Eleanor  need  call.  I  don't  think  Eleanor 
would  get  on  at  all  well  with  Mrs.  Proudie." 

"Not  the  least  necessity  in  life,"  replied  the  archdeacon,  not 
without  the  reflection  that  a  ceremony  which  was  necessarv 
for  his  wife,  might  not  be  at  all  binding  on  the  widow  of  John 

44 


WAR. 

Bold.  "Not  the  slightest  reason  on  earth  why  she  should  do 
so,  if  she  doesn't  like  it.  For  myself,  I  don't  think  that  any 
decent  young  woman  should  be  subjected  to  the  nuisance  of 
being  in  the  same  room  with  that  man." 

And  so  the  two  clergymen  parted,  Mr.  Harding  going  to 
his  daughter's  house,  and  the  archdeacon  seeking  the  seclu- 
sion of  his  brougham. 

The  new  inhabitants  of  the  palace  did  not  express  any  high- 
er opinion  of  their  visitors  than  their  visitors  had  expressed 
of  them.  Though  they  did  not  use  quite  such  strong  lan- 
guage as  Dr.  Grantly  had  done,  they  felt  as  much  personal 
aversion,  and  were  quite  as  well  aware  as  he  was  that  there 
would  be  a  battle  to  be  fought,  and  that  there  was  hardly 
room  for  Proudieism  in  Barchester  as  long  as  Grantlyism  was 
predominant. 

Indeed,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Mr.  Slope  had  not 
already  within  his  breast  a  better  prepared  system  of  strategy, 
a  more  accurately-defined  line  of  hostile  conduct  than  the 
archdeacon.  Dr.  Grantly  was  going  to  fight  because  he  found 
that  he  hated  the  man.  Mr.  Slope  had  predetermined  to  hate 
the  man,  because  he  foresaw  the  necessity  of  fighting  him. 
When  he  had  first  reviewed  the  carte  dii  pays,  previous  to  his 
entry  into  Barchester,  the  idea  had  occurred  to  him  of  con- 
ciliating the  archdeacon,  of  cajoling  and  flattering  him  into 
submission,  and  of  obtaining  the  upper  hand  by  cunning  in- 
stead of  courage.  A  little  inquiry,  however,  sufficed  to  con- 
vince him  that  all  his  cunning  would  fail  to  win  over  such 
a  man  as  Dr.  Grantly  to  such  a  mode  of  action  as  that  to  be 
adopted  by  Mr.  Slope ;  and  then  he  determined  to  fall  back 
upon  his  courage.  He  at  once  saw  that  open  battle  against 
Dr.  Grantly  and  all  Dr.  Grantly 's  adherents  was  a  necessity 
of  his  position,  and  he  deliberately  planned  the  most  expe- 
dient methods  of  giving  offence. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  the  bishop  had  intimated  to  the  dean, 
that  with  the  permission  of  the  canon  then  in  residence,  his 
chaplain  would  preach  in  the  cathedral  on  the  next  Sunday. 
The  canon  in  residence  happened  to  be  the  Hon.  and  Rev. 
Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope,  who  at  this  time  was  very  busy  on  the 
shores  of  the  Lake  of  Como,  adding  to  that  unique  collection 
of  butterflies   for  which  he  is  so   famous.     Or,  rather,   he 

45 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

would  have  been  in  residence  but  for  the  butterflies  and  other 
such  summer-day  considerations ;  and  the  vicar-choral,  who 
was  to  take  his  place  in  the  pulpit,  by  no  means  objected  to 
having  his  work  done  for  him  by  Mr.  Slope. 

Mr.  Slope  accordingly  preached,  and  if  a  preacher  can  have 
satisfaction  in  being  listened  to,  Mr.  Slope  ought  to  have  been 
gratified.  I  have  reason  to  think  that  he  was  gratified,  and 
that  he  left  the  pulpit  with  the  conviction  that  he  had  done 
what  he  intended  to  do  when  he  entered  it. 

On  this  occasion  the  new  bishop  took  his  seat  for  the  first 
time  in  the  throne  allotted  to  him.  New  scarlet  cushions  and 
drapery  had  been  prepared,  with  new  gilt  binding  and  new 
fringe.  The  old  carved  oak-wood  of  the  throne,  ascending 
with  its  numerous  grotesque  pinnacles  half-way  up  to  the  roof 
of  the  choir,  had  been  washed,  and  dusted,  and  rubbed,  and  it 
all  looked  very  smart.  Ah !  how  often  sitting  there,  in  happy 
early  days,  on  those  lowly  benches  in  front  of  the  altar,  have 
I  whiled  away  the  tedium  of  a  sermon  in  considering  how  best 
I  might  thread  my  way  up  amidst  those  wooden  towers,  and 
climb  safely  to  the  topmost  pinnacle ! 

All  Barchester  went  to  hear  Mr.  Slope ;  either  for  that  or 
to  gaze  at  the  new  bishop.  All  the  best  bonnets  of  the  city 
were  there,  and  moreover  all  the  best  glossy  clerical  hats. 
Not  a  stall  but  had  its  fitting  occupant;  for  though  some  of 
the  prebendaries  might  be  away  in  Italy  or  elsewhere,  their 
places  were  filled  by  brethren,  who  flocked  into  Barchester 
on  the  occasion.  The  dean  was  there,  a  heavy  old  man,  now 
too  old,  indeed,  to  attend  frequently  in  his  place ;  and  so  was 
the  archdeacon.  So  also  were  the  chancellor,  the  treasurer, 
the  precentor,  sundry  canons  and  minor  canons,  and  every  lay 
member  of  the  choir,  prepared  to  sing  the  new  bishop  in  with 
due  melody  and  harmonious  expression  of  sacred  welcome. 

The  service  was  certainly  very  well  performed.  Such  was 
always  the  case  at  Barchester,  as  the  musical  education  of 
the  choir  had  been  good,  and  the  voices  had  been  carefully 
selected.  The  psalms  were  beautifully  chanted ;  the  Te  Deum 
was  magnificently  sung;  and  the  litany  was  given  in  a  man- 
ner, which  is  still  to  be  found  at  Barchester,  but,  if  my  taste 
be  correct,  is  to  be  found  nowhere  else.  The  litany  in  Bar- 
chester cathedral  has  long  been  the  special  task  to  which  Mr. 

46 


WAR. 

Harding's  skill  and  voice  have  been  devoted.  Crowded  au- 
diences generally  make  good  performers,  and  though  Mr. 
Harding  was  not  aware  of  any  extraordinary  exertion  on  his 
part,  yet  probably  he  rather  exceeded  his  usual  mark.  Others 
were  doing  their  best,  and  it  was  natural  that  he  should  emu- 
late his  brethren.  So  the  service  went  on,  and  at  last  Mr. 
Slope  got  into  the  pulpit. 

He  chose  for  his  text  a  verse  from  the  precepts  addressed 
by  St.  Paul  to  Timothy,  as  to  the  conduct  necessary  in  a  spir- 
itual pastor  and  guide,  and  it  was  immediately  evident  that 
the  good  clergy  of  Barchester  were  to  have  a  lesson. 

"Study  to  show  thyself  approved  unto  God,  a  workman 
that  needeth  not  to  be  ashamed,  rightly  dividing  the  word  of 
truth."  These  were  the  words  of  his  text,  and  with  such  a 
subject  in  such  a  place,  it  may  be  supposed  that  such  a 
preacher  would  be  listened  to  by  such  an  audience.  He  was 
listened  to  with  breathless  attention,  and  not  without  consid- 
erable surprise.  Whatever  opinion  of  Mr.  Slope  might  have 
been  held  in  Barchester  before  he  commenced  his  discourse, 
none  of  his  hearers,  when  it  was  over,  could  mistake  him 
either  for  a  fool  or  a  coward. 

It  would  not  be  becoming  were  I  to  travestie  a  sermon,  or 
even  to  repeat  the  language  of  it  in  the  pages  of  a  novel.  In 
endeavouring  to  depict  the  characters  of  the  persons  of  whom 
I  write,  I  am  to  a  certain  extent  forced  to  speak  of  sacred 
things.  I  trust,  however,  that  I  shall  not  be  thought  to  scoff 
at  the  pulpit,  though  some  may  imagine  that  I  do  not  feel 
all  the  reverence  that  is  due  to  the  cloth.  I  may  question  the 
infallibility  of  the  teachers,  but  I  hope  that  I  shall  not  there- 
fore be  accused  of  doubt  as  to  the  thing  to  be  taught. 

Mr.  Slope,  in  commencing  his  sermon,  showed  no  slight 
tact  in  his  ambiguous  manner  of  hinting  that,  humble  as  he 
was  himself,  he  stood  there  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  illus- 
trious divine  who  sat  opposite  to  him ;  and  having  premised 
so  much,  he  gave  forth  a  very  accurate  definition  of  the  con- 
duct which  that  prelate  would  rejoice  to  see  in  the  clergymen 
now  brought  under  his  jurisdiction.  It  is  only  necessary  to 
say,  that  the  peculiar  points  insisted  upon  were  exactly  those 
which  were  most  distasteful  to  the  clergy  of  the  diocese,  and 
most  averse  to  their  practice  and  opinions ;  and  that  all  those 

A7 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

peculiar  habits  and  privileges  which  have  always  been  dear 
to  high-church  priests,  to  that  party  which  is  now  scanda- 
lously called  the  high-and-dry  church,  were  ridiculed,  abused, 
and  anathematised.  Now,  the  clergymen  of  the  diocese  of 
Barchester  are  all  of  the  high-and-dry  church. 

Having  thus,  according  to  his  own  opinion,  explained  how 
a  clergyman  should  show  himself  approved  unto  God,  as  a 
workman  that  needeth  not  to  be  ashamed,  he  went  on  to 
explain  how  the  word  of  truth  should  be  divided ;  and  here  he 
took  a  rather  narrow  view  of  the  question,  and  fetched  his 
arguments  from  afar.  His  object  was  to  express  his  abom- 
ination of  all  ceremonious  modes  of  utterance,  to  cry  down 
any  religious  feeling  which  might  be  excited,  not  by  the  sense, 
but  by  the  sound  of  words,  and  in  fact  to  insult  cathedral 
practices.  Had  St.  Paul  spoken  of  rightly  pronouncing  in- 
stead of  rightly  dividing  the  word  of  truth,  this  part  of  his 
sermon  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose ;  but  the  preach- 
er's immediate  object  was  to  preach  Mr.  Slope's  doctrine,  and 
not  St.  Paul's,  and  he  contrived  to  give  the  necessary  twist 
to  the  text  with  some  skill. 

He  could  not  exactly  say,  preaching  from  a  cathedral  pul- 
pit, that  chanting  should  be  abandoned  in  cathedral  services. 
By  such  an  assertion,  he  would  have  overshot  his  mark  and 
rendered  himself  absurd,  to  the  delight  of  .his  hearers.  He 
could,  however,  and  did,  allude  with  heavy  denunciations  to 
the  practice  of  intoning  in  parish  churches,  although  the 
practice  was  all  but  unknown  in  the  diocese ;  and  from  thence 
he  came  round  to  the  undue  preponderance,  which  he  as- 
serted, music  had  over  meaning  in  the  beautiful  service  which 
they  had  just  heard.  He  was  aware,  he  said,  that  the  prac- 
tices of  our  ancestors  could  not  be  abandoned  at  a  moment's 
notice;  the  feelings  of  the  aged  would  be  outraged,  and  the 
minds  of  respectable  men  would  be  shocked.  There  were 
many,  he  was  aware,  of  not  sufficient  calibre  of  thought  to 
perceive,  of  not  sufficient  education  to  know,  that  a  mode  of 
service,  which  was  effective  when  outward  ceremonies  were 
of  more  moment  than  inward  feelings,  had  become  all  but 
barbarous  at  a  time  when  inward  conviction  was  everything, 
when  each  word  of  the  minister's  lips  should  fall  intelligibly 
into  the  listener's  heart.     Formerly  the  religion  of  the  multi- 

48 


WAR. 

tude  had  been  an  affair  of  the  imagination ;  now,  in  these  lat- 
ter days,  it  had  become  necessary  that  a  Christian  should 
have  a  reason  for  his  faith — should  not  only  believe,  but  digest 
— not  only  hear,  but  understand.  The  words  of  our  morning 
service,  how  beautiful,  how  apposite,  how  intelligible  they 
were,  when  read  with  simple  and  distinct  decorum !  but  how 
much  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  was  lost  when  they  were 
produced  with  all  the  meretricious  charms  of  melody !  &c.  &c. 

Here  was  a  sermon  to  be  preached  before  Mr.  Archdeacon 
Grantly,  ]\Ir.  Precentor  Harding,  and  the  rest  of  them !  be- 
fore a  whole  dean  and  chapter  assembled  in  their  own  cathe- 
dral !  before  men  who  had  grown  old  in  the  exercise  of  their 
peculiar  services,  with  a  full  conviction  of  their  excellence  for 
all  intended  purposes !  This  too  from  such  a  man,  a  clerical 
parvenu,  a  man  without  a  cure,  a  mere  chaplain,  an  intruder 
among  them ;  a  fellow  raked  up,  so  said  Dr.  Grantly,  from  the 
gutters  of  Marylebone  !  They  had  to  sit  through  it !  None 
of  them,  not  even  Dr.  Grantly,  could  close  his  ears,  nor  leave 
the  house  of  God  during  the  hours  of  service.  They  were 
under  an  obligation  of  listening,  and  that  too,  without  any 
immediate  power  of  reply. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  greater  hardship  at  present  inflicted 
on  mankind  in  civilised  and  free  countries,  than  the  necessity 
of  listening  to  sermons.  No  one  but  a  preaching  clergyman 
has,  in  these  realms,  the  power  of  compelling  an  audience  to 
sit  silent,  and  be  tormented.  No  one  but  a  preaching  clergy- 
man can  revel  in  platitudes,  truisms,  and  untruisms,  and  yet 
receive,  as  his  undisputed  privilege,  the  same  respectful  de- 
meanour as  though  words  of  impassioned  eloquence,  of  per- 
suasive logic,  fell  from  his  lips.  Let  a  professor  of  law  or 
physic  find  his  place  in  a  lecture-room,  and  there  pour  forth 
jejune  words,  and  useless  empty  phrases,  and  he  will  pour 
them  forth  to  empty  benches.  Let  a  barrister  attempt  to  talk 
without  talking  well,  and  he  will  talk  but  seldom.  A  judge's 
charge  need  be  listened  to  per  force  by  none  but  the  jury, 
prisoner,  and  gaoler.  A  member  of  Parliament  can  be 
coughed  down  or  counted  out.  Town-councillors  can  be 
tabooed.  But  no  one  can  rid  himself  of  the  preaching  clergy- 
man. He  is  the  bore  of  the  age,  the  old  man  whom  we  Sind- 
bads  cannot  shake  off,  the  nightmare  that  disturbs  our  Sun- 

49 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

day's  rest,  the  incubus  that  overloads  our  religion  and  makes 
God's  service  distasteful.  We  are  not  forced  into  church ! 
No ;  but  we  desire  more  than  that.  We  desire  not  to  be  forced 
to  stay  away.  We  desire,  nay,  we  are  resolute,  to  enjoy 
the  comfort  of  public  worship  ;  but  we  desire  also  that  we  may 
do  so  without  an  amount  of  tedium  which  ordinary  human 
nature  cannot  endure  with  patience;  that  we  may  be  able  to 
leave  the  house  of  God,  without  that  anxious  longing  for  es- 
cape, which  is  the  common  consequence  of  common  sermons. 

With  what  complacency  will  a  young  parson  deduce  false 
conclusions  from  misunderstood  texts,  and  then  threaten  us 
with  all  the  penalties  of  Hades  if  we  neglect  to  comply  with 
the  injunctions  he  has  given  us !  Yes,  my  too  self-confident 
juvenile  friend,  I  do  believe  in  those  mysteries,  which  are  so 
common  in  your  mouth ;  I  do  believe  in  the  unadulterated 
word  which  you  hold  there  in  your  hand ;  but  you  must  par- 
don me  if,  in  some  things,  I  doubt  your  interpretation.  The 
bible  is  good,  the  prayer-book  is  good,  nay,  you  yourself 
would  be  acceptable,  if  you  would  read  to  me  some  portion 
of  those  time-honoured  discourses  which  our  great  divines 
have  elaborated  in  the  full  maturity  of  their  powers.  But 
you  must  excuse  me,  my  insufficient  young  lecturer,  if  I  yawn 
over  your  imperfect  sentences,  yoar  repeated  phrases,  your 
false  pathos,  your  drawlings  and  denouncings,  your  humming 
and  hawing,  your  oh-ing  and  ah-ing,  your  black  gloves  and 
your  white  handkerchief.     To  me,  it  all  means  nothing;  and 

hours  are  too  precious  to  be  so  wasted if  one  could  only 

avoid  it. 

And  here  I  must  make  a  protest  against  the  pretence,  so 
often  put  forward  by  the  working  clergy,  that  they  are  over- 
burdened by  the  multitude  of  sermons  to  be  preached.  We 
are  all  loo  fond  of  our  own  voices,  and  a  preacher  is  encour- 
aged in  the  vanity  of  making  his  heard  by  the  privilege  of  a 
compelled  audience.  His  sermon  is  the  pleasant  morsel  of 
his  life,  his  delicious  moment  of  self-exaltation.  'T  have 
preached  nine  sermons  this  week,"  said  a  young  friend  to  me 
the  other  day,  with  hand  languidly  raised  to  his  brow,  the 
picture  of  an  overburdened  martyr.  "Nine  this  week,  seven 
last  week,  four  the  week  before.  I  have  preached  twenty- 
three  sermons  this  month.     It  is  really  too  much."     "Too 

50 


THE  DEAN  AND  CHAPTER  TAKE  COUNSEL. 

much,  indeed,"  said  I.  shuddering ;  "too  much  for  the  strength 
of  any  one."  "Yes,"  he  answered  meekly,  "indeed  it  is;  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  it  painfully."  "Would,"  said  I,  "you 
could  feel  it — would  that  you  could  be  made  to  feel  it."  But 
he  never  guessed  that  my  heart  was  wrung  for  the  poor 
listeners. 

There  was,  at  any  rate,  no  tedium  felt  in  listening  to  Mr. 
Slope  on  the  occasion  in  question.  His  subject  came  too 
home  to  his  audience  to  be  dull ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  Mr. 
Slope  had  the  gift  of  using  words  forcibly.  He  was  heard 
through  his  thirty  minutes  of  eloquence  with  mute  attention 
and  open  ears ;  but  with  angry  eyes,  which  glared  round  from 
one  enraged  parson  to  another,  with  wide-spread  nostrils 
from  which  already  burst  forth  fumes  of  indignation,  and 
with  many  shufflings  of  the  feet  and  uneasy  motions  of  the 
body,  which  betokened  minds  disturbed,  and  hearts  not  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

At  last  the  bishop,  who,  of  all  the  congregation,  had  been 
most  surprised,  and  whose  hair  almost  stood  on  end"  with 
terror,  gave  the  blessing  in  a  manner  not  at  all  equal  to  that 
in  which  he  had  long  been  practising  it  in  his  own  study,  and 
the  congregation  was  free  to  go  their  way. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  DEAN   AND   CHAPTER  TAKE   COUNSEL. 

ALL  Barchester  was  in  a  tumult.  Dr.  Grantly  could 
L.  hardly  get  himself  out  of  the  cathedral  porch  before 
he  exploded  in  his  wrath.  The  old  dean  betook  himself  si- 
lently to  his  deanery,  afraid  to  speak ;  and  there  sa\,  half- 
stupefied,  pondering  many  things  in  vain.  Mr.  Harding 
crept  forth  solitary  and  unhappy ;  and,  slowly  passing  beneath 
the  elms  of  the  close,  could  scarcely  bring  himself  to  believe 
that  the  words  which  he  had  heard  had  proceeded  from  the 
pulpit  of  Barchester  cathedral.  Was  he  again  to  be  dis- 
turbed? was  his  whole  life  to  be  shown  up  as  a  useless  sham 
a  second  time?  would  he  have  to  abdicate  his  precentorship, 
as  he  had  his  wardenship,  and  to  give  up  chanting,  as  he 

51 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

had  given  up  his  twelve  old  bedesmen?  And  what  if  he 
did !  Some  other  Jupiter,  some  other  Mr.  Slope,  would  come 
and  turn  him  out  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  Surely  he  could  not 
have  been  wrong  all  his  life  in  chanting  the  litany  as  he  had 
done !  He  began,  however,  to  have  his  doubts.  Doubting 
himself  was  Mr.  Harding's  weakness.  It  is  not,  however,  the 
usual  fault  of  his  order. 

Yes!  all  Barchester  was  in  a  tumult.  It  was  not  only  the 
clergy  who  were  affected.  The  laity  also  had  listened  to  Mr. 
Slope's  new  doctrine,  all  with  surprise,  some  with  indigna- 
tion, and  some  with  a  mixed  feeling,  in  which  dislike  of  the 
p^reacher  was  not  so  strongly  blended.  The  old  bishop  and 
his  chaplains,  the  dean  and  his  canons  and  minor  canons,  the 
old  choir,  and  especially  Mr.  Harding  who  was  at  the  head 
of  it,  had  all  been  popular  in  Barchester.  They  had  spent 
their  money  and  done  good ;  the  poor  had  not  been  ground 
down ;  the  clergy  in  society  had  neither  been  overbearing  nor 
austere ;  and  the  whole  repute  of  the  city  was  due  to  its  eccle- 
siastical importance.  Yet  there  were  those  who  had  heard 
Mr.  Slope  with  satisfaction. 

It  is  so  pleasant  to  receive  a  fillip  of  excitement  when  suf- 
fering from  the  dull  routine  of  every-day  life !  The  anthems 
and  Te  Deums  were  in  themselves  delightful,  but  they  had 
been  heard  so  often !  Mr.  Slope  was  certainly  not  delightful, 
but  he  was  new,  and,  moreover,  clever.  They  had  long 
thought  it  slow,  so  said  now  many  of  the  Barchesterians,  to 
go  on  as  they  had  done  in  their  old  humdrum  way,  giving 
ear  to  none  of  the  religious  changes  which  were  moving  the 
world  without.  People  in  advance  of  the  age  now  had  new 
ideas,  and  it  was  quite  time  that  Barchester  should  go  in  ad- 
vance. Mr.  Slope  might  be  right.  Sunday  certainly  had 
not  been  strictly  kept  in  Barchester,  except  as  regarded  the 
cathedral  services.  Indeed  the  two  hours  between  services 
had  long  been  appropriated  to  morning  calls  and  hot  lunch- 
eons. Then  Sunday  schools !  really  more  ought  to  have  been 
done  as  to  Sunday  schools ;  Sabbath-day  schools  Mr.  Slope 
had  called  them.  The  late  bishop  had  really  not  thought  of 
Sunday  schools  as  he  should  have  done.  (These  people 
probably  did  not  reflect  that  catechisms  and  collects  are  quite 
as  hard  work  to  the  young  mind  as  bookkeeping  is  to  the 

52 


THE  DEAN  AND  CHAPTER  TAKE  COUNSEL. 

elderly;  and  that  quite  as  little  feeling  of  worship  enters  into 
the  one  task  as  the  other.)  And  then,  as  regarded  that  great 
question  of  musical  services,  there  might  be  much  to  be  said 
on  Mr.  Slope's  side  of  the  question.  It  certainly  was  the 
fact,  that  people  went  to  the  cathedral  to  hear  the  music, 
&c.  &c. 

And  so  a  party  absolutely  formed  itself  in  Barchester  on 
Mr.  Slope's  side  of  the  question !  This  consisted,  among  the 
upper  classes,  chiefly  of  ladies.  No  man — that  is,  no  gentle- 
man— could  possibly  be  attracted  by  Mr.  Slope,  or  consent 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  so  abhorrent  a  Gamaliel.  Ladies  are 
sometimes  less  nice  in  their  appreciation  of  physical  disquali- 
fication ;  and,  provided  that  a  man  speak  to  them  well,  they 
will  listen,  though  he  speak  from  a  mouth  never  so  deformed 
and  hideous.  Wilkes  was  most  fortunate  as  a  lover ;  and  the 
damp,  sandy-haired,  saucer-eyed,  red-fisted  Mr.  Slope  was 
powerful  only  over  the  female  breast. 

There  were,  however,  one  or  two  of  the  neighbouring 
clergy  who  thought  it  not  quite  safe  to  neglect  the  baskets  in 
which  for  the  nonce  were  stored  the  loaves  and  fishes  of  the 
diocese  of  Barchester.  They,  and  they  only,  came  to  call  on 
Mr.  Slope  after  his  performance  in  the  cathedral  pulpit. 
Among  these  Mr.  Quiverful,  the  rector  of  Puddingdale, 
whose  wife  still  continued  to  present  him  from  year  to  year 
with  fresh  pledges  of  her  love,  and  so  to  increase  his  cares 
and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  his  happiness  equally.  Who  can  wonder 
that  a  gentleman,  with  fourteen  living  children  and  a  bare 
income  of  400/.  a  year,  should  look  after  the  loaves  and  fishes, 
even  when  they  are  under  the  thumb  of  a  Mr.  Slope? 

Very  soon  after  the  Sunday  on  which  the  sermon  was 
preached,  the  leading  clergy  of  the  neighbourhood  held  high 
debate  together  as  to  how  Mr.  Slope  should  be  put  down. 
In  the  first  place  he  should  never  again  preach  from  the  pul- 
pit of  Barchester  cathedral.  This  was  Dr.  Grantly's  earliest 
dictum ;  and  they  all  agreed,  providing  only  that  they  had  the 
power  to  exclude  him.  Dr.  Grantly  declared  that  the  power 
rested  with  the  dean  and  chapter,  observing  that  no  clergy- 
man out  of  the  chapter  had  a  claim  to  preach  there,  saving 
only  the  bishop  himself.  To  this  the  dean  assented,  but  al- 
leged that  contests  on  such  a  subject  would  be  unseemly;  to 

53 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

which  rejoined  a  meagre  little  doctor,  one  of  the  cathedral 
prebendaries,  that  the  contest  must  be  all  on  the  side  of  Mr. 
Slope  if  every  prebendary  were  always  there  ready  to  take  his 
own  place  in  the  pulpit.  Cunning  little  meagre  doctor,  whom 
it  suits  well  to  live  in  his  own  cosy  house  within  Barchester 
close,  and  who  is  well  content  to  have  his  little  fling  at  Dr. 
Vesey  Stanhope  and  other  absentees,  whose  Italian  villas,  or 
enticing  London  homes,  are  more  tempting  than  cathedral 
stalls  and  residences ! 

To  this  answered  the  burly  chancellor,  a  man  rather  silent 
indeed,  but  very  sensible,  that  absent  prebendaries  had  their 
vicars,  and  that  in  such  case  the  vicar's  right  to  the  pulpit 
was  the  same  as  that  of  the  higher  order.  To  which  the 
dean  assented,  groaning  deeply  at  these  truths.  Thereupon, 
however,  the  meagre  doctor  remarked  that  they  would  be  in 
the  hands  of  their  minor  canons,  one  of  whom  might  at  any 
hour  betray  his  trust.  Wliereon  was  heard  from  the  burly 
chancellor  an  ejaculation  sounding  somewhat  like  "Pooh, 
pooh,  pooh !"  but  it  might  be  that  the  worthy  man  was  but 
blowing  out  the  heavy  breath  from  his  windpipe.  Why  si- 
lence him  at  all  ?  suggested  Mr.  Harding.  Let  them  not  be 
ashamed  to  hear  what  any  man  might  have  to  preach  to  them, 
unless  he  preached  false  doctrine ;  in  which  case,  let  the 
bishop  silence  him.  So  spoke  our  friend ;  vainly ;  for  human 
ends  must  be  attained  by  human  means.  But  the  dean  saw 
a  ray  of  hope  out  of  those  purblind  old  eyes  of  his.  Yes,  let 
them  tell  the  bishop  how  distasteful  to  them  was  this  Mr. 
Slope :  a  new  bishop  just  come  to  his  seat  could  not  wish  to 
insult  his  clergy  while  the  gloss  was  yet  fresh  on  his  first 
apron. 

Then  up  rose  Mr.  Grantly;  and,  having  thus  collected  the 
scattered  wisdom  of  his  associates,  spoke  forth  with  words 
of  deep  authority.  When  I  say  up  rose  the  archdeacon,  I 
speak  of  the  inner  man,  which  then  sprang  up  to  more  imme- 
diate action,  for  the  doctor  had,  bodily,  been  standing  all 
along  with  his  back  to  the  dean's  empty  fire-grate,  and  the 
tails  of  his  frock  coat  supported  over  his  two  arms.  His 
hands  were  in  his  breeches  pockets. 

"It  is  quite  clear  that  this  man  must  not  be  allowed  to 
preach  again  in  this  cathedral.     We  all  see  that,  except  our 

54 


THE  DEAN  AND  CHAPTER  TAKE  COUNSEL. 

dear  friend  here,  the  milk  of  whose  nature  runs  so  softly, 
that  he  would  not  have  the  heart  to  refuse  the  Pope  the  loan 
of  his  pulpit,  if  the  Pope  would  come  and  ask  it.  We  must 
not,  however,  allow  the  man  to  preach  again  here.  It  is  not 
because  his  opinion  on  church  matters  may  be  different  from 
ours — with  that  one  would  not  quarrel.  It  is  because  he  has 
purposely  insulted  us.  When  he  went  up  into  the  pulpit  last 
Sunday,  his  studied  object  was  to  give  offence  to  men  who 
had  grown  old  in  reverence  of  those  things  of  which  he  dared 
to  speak  so  slightingly.  What !  to  come  here  a  stranger,  a 
young,  unknown,  and  unfriended  stranger,  and  tell  us,  in  the 
name  of  the  bishop  his  master,  that  we  are  ignorant  of  our 
duties,  old-fashioned,  and  useless !  I  don't  know  whether 
most  to  admire  his  courage  or  his  impudence !  And  one 
thing  I  will  tell  you :  that  sermon  originated  solely  with  the 
man  himself.  The  bishop  was  no  more  a  party  to  it  than  was 
the  dean  here.  You  all  know  how  grieved  I  am  to  see  a 
bishop  in  this  diocese  holding  the  latitudinarian  ideas  by 
which  Dr.  Proudie  has  made  himself  conspicuous.  You  all 
know  how  greatly  I  should  distrust  the  opinion  of  such  a 
man.  But  in  this  matter  I  hold  him  to  be  blameless.  I  be- 
lieve Dr.  Proudie  has  lived  too  long  among  gentlemen  to  be 
guilty,  or  to  instigate  another  to  be  guilty,  of  so  gross  an  out- 
rage. No !  that  man  uttered  what  was  untrue  when  he  hinted 
that  he  was  speaking  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  bishop.  It 
suited  his  ambitious  views  at  once  to  throw  down  the  gaunt- 
let to  us — at  once  to  defy  us  here  in  the  quiet  of  our  own 
religious  duties — here  within  the  walls  of  our  own  loved 
'  cathedral — here  where  we  have  for  so  many  years  exercised 
our  ministry  without  schism  and  with  good  repute.  Such  an 
attack  upon  us,  coming  from  such  a  quarter,  is  abominable." 

"Abominable,"  groaned  the  dean.  "Abominable,"  muttered 
the  meagre  doctor.  "Abominable,"  re-echoed  the  chancellor, 
uttering  the  sound  from  the  bottom  of  his  deep  chest.  "I 
really  think  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"Most  abominable  and  most  unjustifiable,"  continued  the 
archdeacon.  "But,  Mr.  Dean,  thank  God,  that  pulpit  is  still 
our  own :  your  own,  I  should  say.  That  pulpit  belongs 
solely  to  the  dean  and  chapter  of  Barchester  Cathedral,  and, 
as  yet,  Mr.  Slope  is  no  part  of  that  chapter.     You,  Mr.  Dean, 

55 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

have  suggested  that  we  should  appeal  to  the  bishop  to  abstain 
from  forcing  this  man  on  us ;  but  what  if  the  bishop  allow 
himself  to  be  ruled  by  his  chaplain?  In  my  opinion,  the 
matter  is  in  our  own  hands.  Mr.  Slope  cannot  preach  there 
without  permission  asked  and  obtained,  and  let  that  permis- 
sion be  invariably  refused.  Let  all  participation  in  the  min- 
istry of  the  cathedral  service  be  refused  to  him.  Then,  if  the 
bishop  choose  to  interfere,  we  shall  know  what  answer  to 
make  to  the  bishop.  My  friend  here  has  suggested  that  this 
man  may  again  find  his  way  into  the  pulpit  by  undertaking 
the  duty  of  some  of  your  minor  canons ;  but  I  am  sure  that 
we  may  fully  trust  to  these  gentlemen  to  support  us,  when  it 
is  known  that  the  dean  objects  to  any  such  transfer." 

"Of  course  you  may,"  said  the  chancellor. 

There  was  much  more  discussion  among  the  learned  con- 
clave, all  of  which,  of  course,  ended  in  obedience  to  the  arch- 
deacon's commands.  They  had  too  long  been  accustomed  to 
his  rule  to  shake  it  off  so  soon ;  and  in  this  particular  case 
they  had  none  of  them  a  wish  to  abet  the  man  whom  he  was 
so  anxious  to  put  down. 

Such  a  meeting  as  that  we  have  just  recorded  is  not  held 
in  such  a  city  as  Barchester  unknown  and  untold  of.  Not 
only  was  the  fact  of  the  meeting  talked  of  in  every  respect- 
able house,  including  the  palace,  but  the  very  speeches  of  the 
dean,  the  archdeacon,  and  chancellor  were  repeated;  not 
without  many  additions  and  imaginary  circumstances,  accord- 
ing to  the  tastes  and  opinions  of  the  relaters. 

All,  however,  agreed  in  saying  that  Mr.  Slope  was  to  be 
debarred  from  opening  his  mouth  in  the  cathedral  of  Bar-' 
Chester ;  many  believed  that  the  vergers  were  to  be  ordered 
to  refuse  him  even  the  accommodation  of  a  seat ;  and  some  of 
the  most  far-going  advocates  for  strong  measures,  declared 
that  his  sermon  was  looked  upon  as  an  indictable  offence,  and 
that  proceedings  were  to  be  taken  against  him  for  brawling. 

The  party  who  were  inclined  to  defend  him — the  enthusi- 
astically religious  young  ladies,  and  the  middle-aged  spinsters 
desirous  of  a  move — of  course  took  up  his  defence  the  more 
warmly  on  account  of  this  attack.  If  they  could  not  hear 
Mr.  Slope  in  the  cathedral,  they  would  hear  him  elsewhere; 
they  would  leave  the  dull  dean,  the  dull  old  prebendaries, 

56 


THE    EX-WARDEN    REJOICES. 

and  the  scarcely  less  dull  young  minor  canons,  to  preach  to 
each  other;  they  would  work  slippers  and  cushions,  and  hem 
bands  for  Mr.  Slope,  make  him  a  happy  martyr,  and  stick 
him  up  in  some  new  Sion  or  Bethesda,  and  put  the  cathedral 
quite  out  of  fashion. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Proudie  at  once  returned  to  London.  They 
thought  it  expedient  not  to  have  to  encounter  any  personal 
application  from  the  dean  and  chapter  respecting  the  sermon, 
till  the  violence  of  the  storm  had  expended  itself ;  but  they 
left  Mr.  Slope  behind  them  nothing  daunted,  and  he  went 
about  his  work  zealously,  flattering  such  as  would  listen  to 
his  flattery,  whispering  religious  twaddle  into  the  ears  of 
foolish  women,  ingratiating  himself  with  the  few  clergy  who 
would  receive  him,  visiting  the  houses  of  the  poor,  inquiring 
into  all  people,  prying  into  everything,  and  searching  with  his 
minutest  eye  into  all  palatial  dilapidations.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, make  any  immediate  attempt  to  preach  again  in  the 
cathedral. 

And  so  all  Barchester  was  by  the  ears. 


CHAPTER    Vni. 

THE  EX-WARDEN   REJOICES    IN    HIS   PROBABLE  RETURN   TO   THE 

HOSPITAL. 

AMONG  the  ladies  in  Barchester  who  have  hitherto  ac- 
L  knowledged  Mr.  Slope  as  their  spiritual  director, 
must  not  be  reckoned  either  the  widow  Bold,  or  her  sister-in- 
law.  On  the  first  outbreak  of  the  wrath  of  the  denizens  of 
the  close,  none  had  been  more  animated  against  the  intruder 
than  these  two  ladies.  And  this  was  natural.  Who  could 
be  so  proud  of  the  musical  distinction  of  their  own  cathedral 
as  the  favourite  daughter  of  the  precentor?  Who  would  be 
so  likely  to  resent  an  insult  offered  to  the  old  choir?  And 
in  such  matters  Miss  Bold  and  her  sister-in-law  had  but  one 
opinion. 

This  wrath,  however,  has  in  some  degree  been  mitigated, 

and  I  regret  to  say  that  these  ladies  allowed  Mr.  Slope  to  be 

'his  own  apologist.     About  a  fortnight  after  the  sermon  had 

57 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

been  preached,  they  were  both  of  them  not  a  Httle  surprised 
by  hearing  Mr.  Slope  announced,  as  the  page  in  buttons 
opened  Mrs.  Bold's  drawing-room  door.  Indeed,  what  Uving 
man  could,  by  a  mere  morning  visit,  have  surprised  them 
more?  Here  was  the  great  enemy  of  all  that  was  good  in 
Barchester  coming  into  their  own  drawing-room,  and  they 
had  no  strong  arm,  no  ready  tongue,  near  at  hand  for  their 
protection.  The  widow  snatched  her  baby  out  of  its  cradle 
into  her  lap,  and  Mary  Bold  stood  up  ready  to  die  manfully 
in  that  baby's  behalf,  should,  under  any  circumstances,  such  a 
sacrifice  become  necessary. 

In  this  manner  was  Mr.  Slope  received.  But  when  he  left, 
he  was  allowed  by  each  lady  to  take  her  hand,  and  to  make 
his  adieux  as  gentlemen  do  who  have  been  graciously  enter- 
tained !  Yes ;  he  shook  hands  with  them,  and  was  curtseyed 
out  courteously,  the  buttoned  page  opening  the  door,  as  he 
would  have  done  for  the  best  canon  of  them  all.  He  had 
touched  the  baby's  little  hand  and  blessed  him  with  a  fervid 
blessing ;  he  had  spoken  to  the  widow  of  her  early  sorrows, 
and  Eleanor's  silent  tears  had  not  rebuked  him ;  he  had  told 
Mary  Bold  that  her  devotion  would  be  rewarded,  and  Mary 
Bold  had  heard  the  praise  without  disgust.  And  how  had 
he  done  all  this  ?  how  had  he  so  quickly  turned  aversion  into, 
at  any  rate,  acquaintance?  how  had  he  overcome  the  enmity 
with  which  these  ladies  had  been  ready  to  receive  him,  and 
made  his  peace  with  them  so  easily? 

My  readers  will  guess  from  what  I  have  written  that  I 
myself  do  not  like  Mr.  Slope;  but  I  am  constrained  to  admit 
that  he  is  a  man  of  parts.  He  knows  how  to  say  a  soft  word 
in  the  proper  place;  he  knows  how  to  adapt  his  flattery  to 
the  ears  of  his  hearers ;  he  knows  the  wiles  of  the  serpent, 
and  he' uses  them.  Could  Mr.  Slope  have  adapted  his  man- 
ners to  men  as  well  as  to  women,  could  he  ever  have  learnt 
the  ways  of  a  gentleman,  he  might  have  risen  to  great  things. 

He  commenced  his  acquaintance  with  Eleanor  by  praising 
her  father.  He  had,  he  said,  become  aware  that  he  had  un- 
fortunately offended  the  feelings  of  a  man  of  whom  he  could 
not  speak  too  highly;  he  would  not  now  allude  to  a  subject 
which  was  probably  too  serious  for  drawing-room  conversa- 
tion, but  he  would  say  that  it  had  been  very  far  from  him 

58 


THE    EX-WARDEN    REJOICES. 

to  utter  a  word  in  disparagement  of  a  man,  of  whom  all  the 
world,  at  least  the  clerical  world,  spoke  so  highly  as  it  did  of 
Mr.  Harding.  And  so  he  went  on,  unsaying  a  great  deal  of 
his  sermon,  expressing  his  highest  admiration  for  the  precen- 
tor's musical  talents,  eulogising  the  father  and  the  daughter 
and  the  sister-in-law,  speaking  in  that  low  silky  whisper 
which  he  always  had  specially  prepared  for  feminine  ears, 
and,  ultimately,  gaining  his  object.  When  he  left,  he  ex- 
pressed a  hope  that  he  might  again  be  allowed  to  call ;  and 
though  Eleanor  gave  no  verbal  assent  to  this,  she  did  not 
express  dissent;  and  so  Mr.  Slope's  right  to  visit  at  the 
widow's  house  was  established. 

The  day  after  this  visit  Eleanor  told  her  father  of  it,  and 
expressed  an  opinion  that  Mr.  Slope  was  not  quite  so  black 
as  he  had  been  painted.  Mr.  Harding  opened  his  eyes  rather 
wider  than  usual  when  he  heard  what  had  occurred,  but  he 
said  little;  he  could  not  agree  in  any  praise  of  Mr.  Slope,  and 
it  was  not  his  practice  to  say  much  evil  of  any  one.  He  did 
not,  however,  like  the  visit,  and  simple-minded  as  he  was,  he 
felt  sure  that  Mr.  Slope  had  some  deeper  motive  than  the 
mere  pleasure  of  making  soft  speeches  to  two  ladies. 

Mr.  Harding,  however,  had  come  to  see  his  daughter  with 
other  purpose  than  that  of  speaking  either  good  or  evil  of 
Mr.  Slope.  He  had  come  to  tell  her  that  the  place  of  warden 
in  Hiram's  hospital  was  again  to  be  filled  up,  and  that  in  all 
probability  he  would  once  more  return  to  his  old  home  and 
his  twelve  bedesmen. 

"But,"  said  he,  laughing,  'T  shall  be  greatly  shorn  of  my 
ancient  glory." 

"Why  so,  papa?" 

"This  new  act  of  parliament,  that  is  to  put  us  all  on  our 
feet  again,"  continued  he,  "settles  my  income  at  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  per  annum." 

"Four  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  she,  "instead  of  eight  hun- 
dred. Well ;  that  is  rather  shabby.  But  still,  papa,  you'll 
have  the  dear  old  house  and  the  garden." 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "it's  worth  twice  the  money;"  and  as 
he  spoke  he  showed  a  jaunty  kind  of  satisfaction  in  his  tone 
and  manner,  and  in  the  quick,  pleasant  way  in  which  he  paced 
Eleanor's  drawing-room.     "It's  worth  twice  the  money.     I 

59 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

shall  have  the  house  and  the  garden,  and  a  larger  income  than 
I  can  possibly  want." 

"At  any  rate,  you'll  have  no  extravagant  daughter  to  pro- 
vide for;"  and  as  she  spoke,  the  young  widow  put  her  arm 
within  his,  and  made  him  sit  on  the  sofa  beside  her;  "at  any 
rate  you'll  not  have  that  expense." 

"No,  my  dear;  and  I  shall  be  rather  lonely  without  her; 
but  we  won't  think  of  that  now.  As  regards  income  I  shall 
have  plenty  for  all  I  want.  I  shall  have  my  old  house;  and 
I  don't  mind  owning  now  that  I  have  felt  sometimes  the  in- 
convenience of  living  in  a  lodging.     Lodgings  are  very  nice 

for  young  men,  but  at  my  time  of  life  there  is  a  want  of 

I  hardly  know  what  to  call  it,  perhaps  not  respectability " 

"Oh,  papa!  I'm  sure  there's  been  nothing  like  that.  No- 
body has  thought  it ;  nobody  in  all  Barchester  has  been  more 
respected  than  you  have  been  since  you  took  those  rooms  in 
High  Street.  Nobody !  Not  the  dean  in  his  deanery,  or  the 
archdeacon  out  at  Plumstead." 

"The  archdeacon  would  not  be  much  obliged  to  you  if  he 
heard  you,"  said  he,  smiling  somewhat  at  the  exclusive  man- 
ner in  which  his  daughter  confined  her  illustration  to  the 
church  dignitaries  of  the  chapter  of  Barchester;  "but  at  any 
rate  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  old  house.  Since  I 
heard  that  it  was  all  settled,  I  have  begun  to  fancy  that  I 
can't  be  comfortable  without  my  two  sitting-rooms." 

"Come  and  stay  with  me,  papa,  till  it  is  settled — there's  a 
dear  papa." 

"Thank  ye,  Nelly.  But  no;  I  won't  do  that.  It  would 
make  two  movings.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  get  back  to  my 
old  men  again.  Alas !  alas !  There  have  six  of  them  gone 
in  these  few  last  years.  Six  out  of  twelve !  And  the  others 
I  fear  have  had  but  a  sorry  Hfe  of  it  there.  Poor  Bunce, 
poor  old  Bunce !" 

Bunce  was  one  of  the  surviving  recipients  of  Hiram's  char- 
ity ;  an  old  man,  now  over  ninety,  who  had  long  been  a  fa- 
vourite of  Mr.  Harding's. 

"How  happy  old  Bunce  will  be,"  said  Mrs.  Bold,  clapping 
her  soft  hands  softly.  "How  happy  they  all  will  be  to  have 
you  back  again.  You  may  be  sure  there  will  soon  be  friend- 
ship among  them  again  when  you  are  there." 

60 


THE    EX-WARDEN    REJOICES. 

"But,"  said  he,  half  laughing,  "I  am  to  have  new  troubles, 
which  will  be  terrible  to  me.  There  are  to  be  twelve  old 
women,  and  a  matron.  How  shall  I  manage  twelve  women 
and  a  matron !" 

"The  matron  will  manage  the  women  of  course." 

"And  who'll  manage  the  matron?"  said  he. 

"She  won't  want  to  be  managed.  She'll  be  a  great  lady 
herself  I  suppose.  But,  papa,  where  will  the  matron  live? 
She  is  not  to  live  in  the  warden's  house  with  you,  is  she?" 

"Well,  I  hope  not,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  papa,  I  tell  you  fairly,  I  won't  have  a  matron  for  a 
new  step-mother." 

"You  shan't,  my  dear;  that  is,  if  I  can  help  it.  But  they 
are  going  to  build  another  house  for  the  matron  and  the 
women ;  and  I  believe  they  haven't  even  fixed  yet  on  the  site 
of  the  building." 

"And  have  they  appointed  the  matron?"  said  Eleanor. 
■    "They  haven't  appointed  the  warden  yet,"  replied  he. 

"But  there's  no  doubt  about  that,  I  suppose,"  said  his 
daughter. 

Mr.  Harding  explained  that  he  thought  there  was  no  doubt ; 
that  the  archdeacon  had  declared  as  much,  saying  that  the 
bishop  and  his  chaplain  between  them  had  not  the  power  to 
appoint  any  one  else,  even  if  they  had  the  will  to  do  so,  and 
sufficient  impudence  to  carry  out  such  a  will.  The  arch- 
deacon was  of  opinion,  that  though  Mr.  Harding  had  re- 
signed his  wardenship,  and  had  done  so  unconditionally,  he 
had  done  so  under  circumstances  which  left  the  bishop  no 
choice  as  to  his  re-appointment,  now  that  the  affair  of  the 
hospital  had  been  settled  on  a  new  basis  by  act  of  parliament. 
Such  was  the  archdeacon's  opinion,  and  his  father-in-law  re 
ceived  it  without  a  shadow  of  doubt. 

Dr.  Grantly  had  always  been  strongly  opposed  to  Mr. 
Harding's  resignation  of  the  place.  He  had  done  all  in  his 
power  to  dissuade  him  from  it.  He  had  considered  that  Mr. 
Harding  was  bound  to  withstand  the  popular  clamour  with 
which  he  was  attacked  for  receiving  so  large  an  income  as 
eight  hundred  a  year  from  such  a  charity,  and  was  not  even 
yet  satisfied  that  his  father-in-law's  conduct  had  not  been 
pusillanimous  and  undignified.     He  looked  also  on  this   re- 

6i 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

duction  of  the  warden's  income  as  a  shabby,  paltry  scheme 
on  the  part  of  government  for  escaping  from  a  difficulty 
into  which  it  had  been  brought  by  the  public  press.  Dr. 
Grantly  observed  that  the  government  had  no  more  right  to 
dispose  of  a  sum  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  out 
of  the  income  of  Hiram's  legacy,  than  of  nine  hundred; 
whereas,  as  he  said,  the  bishop,  dean,  and  chapter  clearly 
had  a  right  to  settle  what  sum  should  be  paid.  He  also  de- 
clared that  the  government  had  no  more  right  to  saddle  the 
charity  with  twelve  old  women  than  with  twelve  hundred; 
and  he  was,  therefore,  very  indignant  on  the  matter.  He 
probably  forgot  when  so  talking  that  government  had  done 
nothing  of  the  kind,  and  had  never  assumed  any  such  might 
or  any  such  right.  He  made  the  common  mistake  of  attrib- 
uting to  the  government,  which  in  such  matters  is  powerless, 
the  doings  of  parliament,  which  in  such  matters  is  om- 
nipotent. 

But  though  he  felt  that  the  glory  and  honour  of  the  situ- 
ation of  warden  of  Barchester  hospital  were  indeed  curtailed 
by  the  new  arrangement ;  that  the  whole  establishment  had  to 
a  certain  degree  been  made  vile  by  the  touch  of  Whig  com- 
missioners ;  that  the  place  with  its  lessened  income,  its  old 
women,  and  other  innovations,  was  very  different  from  the 
hospital  of  former  days ;  still  the  archdeacon  was  too  practi- 
cal a  man  of  the  world  to  wish  that  his  father-in-law,  who 
had  at  present  little  more  than  200/.  per  annum  for  all  his 
wants,  should  refuse  the  situation,  defiled,  undignified,  and 
commission-ridden  as  it  was. 

Mr.  Harding  had,  accordingly,  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  return  to  his  old  home  at  the  hospital,  and  to  tell  the 
truth,  had  experienced  almost  a  childish  pleasure  in  the  idea 
of  doing  so.  The  diminished  income  was  to  him  not  even  the 
source  of  momentary  regret.  The  matron  and  the  old  women 
did  rather  go  against  the  grain ;  but  he  was  able  to  console 
himself  with  the  reflection,  that,  after  all,  such  an  arrange- 
ment might  be  of  real  service  to  the  poor  of  the  city.  The 
thought  that  he  must  receive  his  re-appointment  as  the  gift 
of  the  new  bishop,  and  probably  through  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Slope,  annoyed  him  a  little ;  but  his  mind  was  set  at  rest  by 
the  assurance  of  the  archdeacon  that  there  would  be  no  fa- 

62 


THE    EX-WARDEN    REJOICES. 

vour  in  such  a  presentation.  The  re-appointment  of  the  old 
warden  would  be  regarded  by  all  the  world  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Mr.  Harding,  therefore,  felt  no  hesitation  in  telling 
his  daughter  that  they  might  look  upon  his  return  to  his  old 
quarters  as  a  settled  matter. 

"And  you  won't  have  to  ask  for  it,  papa?" 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear.  There  is  no  ground  on  which  I 
could  ask  for  any  favour  from  the  bishop,  whom,  indeed,  I 
hardly  know.  Nor  would  I  ask  a  favour,  the  granting  of 
which  might  possibly  be  made  a  question  to  be  settled  by  Mr. 
Slope.  No,"  said  he,  moved  for  a  moment  by  a  spirit  very 
unlike  his  own,  'T  certainly  shall  be  very  glad  to  go  back  to 
the  hospital ;  but  I  should  never  go  there,  if  it  were  necessary 
that  my  doing  so  should  be  the  subject  of  a  request  to  Mr. 
Slope." 

This  little  outbreak  of  her  father's  anger  jarred  on  the 
present  tone  of  Eleanor's  mind.  She  had  not  learnt  to  like 
Mr.  Slope,  but  she  had  learnt  to  think  that  he  had  much  re- 
spect for  her  father :  and  she  would,  therefore,  willingly  use 
her  efforts  to  induce  something  like  good  feeling  between 
them. 

"Papa,"  said  she,  "I  think  you  somewhat  mistake  Mr. 
Slope's  character." 

"Do  I  ?"  said  he,  placidly. 

"I  think  you  do,  papa.  I  think  he  intended  no  personal 
disrespect  to  you  when  he  preached  the  sermon  which  made 
the  archdeacon  and  the  dean  so  angry !" 

"I  never  supposed  he  did,  my  dear.  I  hope  I  never  in- 
quired within  myself  whether  he  did  or  no.  Such  a  matter 
would  be  unworthy  of  any  inquiry,  and  very  unworthy  of 
the  consideration  of  the  chapter.  But  I  fear  he  intended  dis- 
respect to  the  ministration  of  God's  services,  as  conducted  in 
conformity  with  the  rules  of  the  Church  of  England." 

"But  might  it  not  be  that  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  express 
his  dissent  from  that  which  you,  and  the  dean,  and  all  of  us 
here  so  much  approve?" 

"It  can  hardly  be  the  duty  of  a  young  man  rudely  to  assail 
the  religious  convictions  of  his  elders  in  the  church.  Cour- 
tesy should  have  kept  him  silent,  even  if  neither  charity  nor 
modesty  could  do  so." 

63 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

"But  Mr.  Slope  would  say  on  such  a  subject  the  commands 
of  his  heavenly  Master  do  not  admit  of  his  being  silent." 

"Nor  of  his  being  courteous,  Eleanor?" 

"He  did  not  say  that,  papa." 

"Believe  me,  my  child,  that  Christian  ministers  are  never 
called  on  by  God's  word  to  insult  the  convictions,  or  even  the 
prejudices  of  their  brethren;  and  that  religion  is  at  any  rate 
not  less  susceptible  of  urbane  and  courteous  conduct  among 
men  than  any  other  study  which  men  may  take  up.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  I  cannot  defend  Mr.  Slope's  sermon  in  the 
cathedral.  But  come,  my  dear,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and  let 
us  walk  round  the  dear  old  gardens  at  the  hospital.  I  have 
never  yet  had  the  heart  to  go  beyond  the  court-yard  since  we 
left  the  place.     Now  I  think  I  can  venture  to  enter." 

Eleanor  rang  the  bell,  and  gave  a  variety  of  imperative 
charges  as  to  the  welfare  of  the  precious  baby,  whom,  all  but 
unwillingly,  she  was  about  to  leave  for  an  hour  or  so,  and 
then  sauntered  forth  with  her  father  to  revisit  the  old  hos- 
pital. It  had  been  forbidden  ground  to  her  as  well  as  to  him 
since  the  day  on  which  they  had  walked  forth  together  from 
its  walls. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE    STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

IT  is  now  three  months  since  Dr.  Proudie  began  his  reign, 
and  changes  have  already  been  effected  in  the  diocese 
which  show  at  least  the  energy  of  an  active  mind.  Among 
other  things  absentee  clergymen  have  been  favoured  with 
hints  much  too  strong  to  be  overlooked.  Poor  dear  old 
Bishop  Grantly  had  on  this  matter  been  too  lenient,  and  the 
archdeacon  had  never  been  inclined  to  be  severe  with  those 
who  were  absent  on  reputable  pretences,  and  who  provided 
for  their  duties  in  a  liberal  way. 

Among  the  greatest  of  the  diocesan  sinners  in  this  respect 
was  Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope.  Years  had  now  passed  since  he 
had  done  a  day's  duty;  and  yet  there  was  no  reason  against 
his  doing  duty  except  a  want  of  inclination  on  his  own  part. 

64 


THE   STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

He  held  a  prebendal  stall  in  the  diocese;  one  of  the  best  resi- 
dences in  the  close ;  and  the  two  large  rectories  of  Crabtree 
Canonicorum,  and  Stogpingum.  Indeed,  he  had  the  cure  of 
three  parishes,  for  that  of  Eiderdown  was  joined  to  Stog- 
pingum. He  had  resided  in  Italy  for  twelve  years.  His  first 
going  there  had  been  attributed  to  a  sore  throat ;  and  that 
sore  throat,  though  never  repeated  in  any  violent  manner, 
had  stood  him  in  such  stead,  that  it  had  enabled  him  to  live 
in  easy  idleness  ever  since. 

He  had  now  been  summoned  home — not,  indeed,  with 
rough  violence,  or  by  any  peremptory  command,  but  by  a 
mandate  which  he  found  himself  unable  to  disregard.  Mr. 
Slope  had  written  to  him  by  the  bishop's  desire.  In  the  first 
place,  the  bishop  much  wanted  the  valuable  co-operation  of 
Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope  in  the  diocese;  in  the  next,  the  bishop 
thought  it  his  imperative  duty  to  become  personally  acquaint- 
ed with  the  most  conspicuous  of  his  diocesan  clergy ;  then  the 
bishop  thought  it  essentially  necessary  for  Dr.  Stanhope's  own 
interests,  that  Dr.  Stanhope  should,  at  any  rate  for  a  time, 
return  to  Barchester;  and  lastly,  it  was  said  that  so  strong  a 
feeling  was  at  the  present  moment  evinced  by  the  hierarchs 
of  the  church  with  reference  to  the  absence  of  its  clerical 
members,  that  it  behoved  Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope  not  to  allow 
his  name  to  stand  among  those  which  would  probably  in  a 
few  months  be  submitted  to  the  councils  of  the  nation. 

There  was  something  so  ambiguously  frightful  in  this  last 
threat  that  Dr.  Stanhope  determined  to  spend  two  or  three 
summer  months  at  his  residence  in  Barchester.  His  recto- 
ries were  inhabited  by  his  curates,  and  he  felt  himself  from 
disuse  to  be  unfit  for  parochial  duty ;  but  his  prebendal  home 
was  kept  empty  for  him,  and  he  thought  it  probable  that  he 
might  be  able  now  and  again  to  preach  a  prebendal  sermon. 
He  arrived,  therefore,  with  all  his  family  at  Barchester,  and 
he  and  they  must  be  introduced  to  my  readers. 

The  great  family  characteristic  of  the  Stanhopes  might 
probably  be  said  to  be  heartlessness ;  but  this  want  of  feeling 
was,  in  most  of  them,  accompanied  by  so  great  an  amount  of 
good  nature  as  to  make  itself  but  little  noticeable  to  the  world. 
They  were  so  prone  to  oblige  their  neighbours  that  their 
neighbours  failed  to  perceive  how  indifferent  to  them  was  the 
'  65 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

happiness  and  well-being  of  those  around  them.  The  Stan- 
hopes would  visit  you  in  your  sickness  (provided  it  were  not 
contagious),  would  bring  you  oranges,  French  novels,  and 
the  last  new  bit  of  scandal,  and  then  hear  of  your  death  or 
your  recovery  with  an  equally  indifferent  composure.  Their 
conduct  to  each  other  was  the  same  as  to  the  world ;  they 
bore  and  forbore :  and  there  was  sometimes,  as  will  be  seen, 
much  necessity  for  forbearing :  but  their  love  among  them- 
selves rarely  reached  above  this.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 
each  of  the  family  was  able  to  do,  and  how  much  each  did, 
to  prevent  the  well-being  of  the  other  four. 

For  there  were  five  in  all ;  the  doctor,  namely,  and  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  two  daughters,  and  one  son.  The  doctor,  perhaps, 
was  the  least  singular  and  most  estimable  of  them  all,  and  yet 
such  good  qualities  as  he  possessed  were  all  negative.  He 
was  a  good  looking  rather  plethoric  gentleman  of  about  sixty 
years  of  age.  His  hair  was  snow  white,  very  plentiful,  and 
somewhat  like  wool  of  the  finest  description.  His  whiskers 
were  very  large  and  very  white,  and  gave  to  his  face  the 
appearance  of  a  benevolent  sleepy  old  lion.  His  dress  was 
always  unexceptionable.  Although  he  had  lived  so  many 
years  in  Italy  it  was  invariably  of  a  decent  clerical  hue,  but 
it  never  was  hyperclerical.  He  was  a  man  not  given  to 
much  talking,  but  what  little  he  did  say  was  generally  well 
said.  His  reading  seldom  went  beyond  romances  and  poetry 
of  the  lightest  and  not  always  most  moral  description.  He 
was  thoroughly  a  bon  vivant;  an  accomplished  judge  of  wine, 
though  he  never  drank  to  excess ;  and  a  most  inexorable  critic 
in  all  affairs  touching  the  kitchen.  He  had  had  much  to  for- 
give in  his  own  family,  since  a  family  had  grown  up  around 
him,  and  had  forgiven  everything — except  inattention  to  his 
dinner.  His  weakness  in  that  respect  was  now  fully  under- 
stood, and  his  temper  but  seldom  tried.  As  Dr.  Stanhope  was 
a  clergyman,  it  may  be  supposed  that  his  religious  convic- 
tions made  up  a  considerable  part  of  his  character;  but  this 
was  not  so.  That  he  had  religious  convictions  must  be  be- 
lieved;  but  he  rarely  obtruded  them,  even  on  his  children. 
This  abstinence  on  his  part  was  not  systematic,  but  very  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  It  was  not  that  he  had  predetermined 
never  to  influence  their  thoughts;  but  he  was  so  habitually 

66 


THE    STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

idle  that  his  time  for  doing  so  had  never  come  till  the  oppor- 
tunity for  doing  so  was  gone  for  ever.  Whatever  conviction 
the  father  may  have  had,  the  children  were  at  any  rate  but 
indifferent  members  of  the  church  from  which  he  drew  his 
income. 

Such  was  Dr.  Stanhope.  The  features  of  Mrs.  Stanhope's 
character  were  even  less  plainly  marked  than  those  of  her 
lord.  The  far  niente  of  her  Italian  life  had  entered  into  her 
very  soul,  and  brought  her  to  regard  a  state  of  inactivity  as 
the  only  earthly  good.  In  manner  and  appearance  she  was 
exceedingly  prepossessing.  She  had  been  a  beauty,  and  even 
now,  at  fifty-five,  she  was  a  handsome  woman.  Her  dress 
was  always  perfect ;  she  never  dressed  but  once  in  the  day, 
and  never  appeared  till  between  three  and  four ;  but  when  she 
did  appear,  she  appeared  at  her  best.  Whether  the  toil  rest- 
ed partly  with  her,  or  wholly  with  her  handmaid,  it  is  not 
for  such  a  one  as  the  author  even  to  imagine.  The  structure 
of  her  attire  was  always  elaborate,  and  yet  never  over  la- 
boured. She  was  rich  in  apparel,  but  not  bedizened  with 
finery;  her  ornaments  were  costly,  rare,  and  such  as  could 
not  fail  to  attract  notice,  but  they  did  not  look  as  though  worn 
with  that  purpose.  She  well  knew  the  great  architectural 
secret  of  decorating  her  constructions,  and  never  descended 
to  construct  a  decoration.  But  when  we  have  said  that  Mrs. 
Stanhope  knew  how  to  dress,  and  used  her  knowledge  daily, 
we  have  said  all.  Other  purpose  in  life  she  had  none.  It 
was  something,  indeed,  that  she  did  not  interfere  with  the 
purposes  of  others.  In  early  life  she  had  undergone  great 
trials  with  reference  to  the  doctor's  dinners;  but  for  the  last 
ten  or  twelve  years  her  eldest  daughter  Charlotte  had  taken 
that  labour  off  her  hands,  and  she  had  had  little  to  trouble 
her; — Httle,  that  is,  till  the  edict  for  this  terrible  English  jour- 
ney had  gone  forth :  since  then,  indeed,  her  life  had  been  la- 
borious enough.  For  such  a  one,  the  toil  of  being  carried 
from  the  shores  of  Como  to  the  city  of  Barchester  is  more 
than  labour  enough,  let  the  care  of  the  carriers  be  ever  so 
vigilant.  Mrs.  Stanhope  had  been  obliged  to  have  every  one 
of  her  dresses  taken  in  from  the  effects  of  the  journey. 

Charlotte  Stanhope  was  at  this  "time  about  thirty-five  years 
old,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  her  faults,  she  had  none 

67 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

of  those  which  belong  particularly  to  old  young  ladies.  She 
neither  dressed  young,  nor  talked  young,  nor  indeed  looked 
young.  She  appeared  to  be  perfectly  content  with  her  time 
of  life,  and  in  no  way  affected  the  graces  of  youth.  She  was 
a  fine  young  woman ;  and  had  she  been  a  man,  would  have 
been  a  very  fine  young  man.  All  that  was  done  in  the  house, 
and  that  was  not  done  by  servants,  was  done  by  her.  She 
gave  the  orders,  paid  the  bills,  hired  and  dismissed  the  do- 
mestics, made  the  tea,  carved  the  meat,  and  managed  every- 
thing in  the  Stanhope  household.  She,  and  she  alone,  could 
ever  induce  her  father  to  look  into  the  state  of  his  worldly 
concerns.  She,  and  she  alone,  could  in  any  degree  control 
the  absurdities  of  her  sister.  She,  and  she  alone,  prevented 
the  whole  family  from  falling  into  utter  disrepute  and  beg- 
gary. It  was  by  her  advice  that  they  now  found  themselves 
very  unpleasantly  situated  in  Barchester. 

So  far,  the  character  of  Charlotte  Stanhope  is  not  unpre- 
possessing. But  it  remains  to  be  said,  that  the  influence 
which  she  had  in  her  family,  though  it  had  been  used  to  a 
certain  extent  for  their  worldly  well-being,  had  not  been  used 
to  their  real  benefit,  as  it  might  have  been.  She  had  aided 
her  father  in  his  indifference  to  his  professional  duties,  coun- 
selling him  that  his  livings  were  as  much  his  individual  prop- 
erty as  the  estates  of  his  elder  brother  were  the  property  of 
that  worthy  peer.  She  had  for  years  past  stifled  every  little 
rising  wish  for  a  return  to  England  which  the  doctor  had 
from  time  to  time  expressed.  She  had  encouraged  her 
mother  in  her  idleness  in  order  that  she  herself  might  be  mis- 
tress and  manager  of  the  Stanhope  household.  She  had  en- 
couraged and  fostered  the  follies  of  her  sister,  though  she 
was  always  willing,  and  often  able,  to  protect  her  from  their 
probable  result.  She  had  done  her  best,  and  had  thoroughly 
succeeded  in  spoiling  her  brother,  and  turning  him  loose  upon 
the  world  an  idle  man  without  a  profession,  and  without  a 
shilling  that  he  could  call  his  own. 

Miss  Stanhope  was  a  clever  woman,  able  to  talk  on  most 
subjects,  and  quite  indifferent  as  to  what  the  subject  was. 
She  prided  herself  on  her  freedom  from  English  prejudice, 
and  she  might  have  added,  from  feminine  delicacy.  On  re- 
ligion she  was  a  pure  free-thinker,  and  with  much  want  of 

68 


THE    STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

true  affection,  delighted  to  throw  out  her  own  views  before 
the  troubled  mind  of  her  father.  To  have  shaken  what  re- 
mained of  his  Church  of  England  faith  would  have  gratified 
her  much ;  but  the  idea  of  his  abandoning  his  preferment  in 
the  church  had  never  once  presented  itself  to  her  mind.  How 
could  he  indeed,  when  he  had  no  income  from  any  other 
source  ? 

But  the  two  most  prominent  members  of  the  family  still 
remain  to  be  described.  The  second  child  had  been  chris- 
tened Madeline,  and  had  been  a  great  beauty.  We  need  not 
say  had  been,  for  she  was  never  more  beautiful  than  at  the 
time  of  which  we  write,  though  her  person  for  many  years 
had  been  disfigured  by  an  accident.  It  is  unnecessary  that 
we  should  give  in  detail  the  early  history  of  Madeline  Stan- 
hope. She  had  gone  to  Italy  when  about  seventeen  years  of 
age,  and  had  been  allowed  to  make  the  most  of  her  surpass- 
ing beauty  in  the  saloons  of  Milan,  and  among  the  crowded 
villas  along  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of  Como.  She  had  be- 
come famous  for  adventures  in  which  her  character  was  just 
not  lost,  and  had  destroyed  the  hearts  of  a  dozen  cavaliers 
without  once  being  touched  in  her  own.  Blood  had  flowed 
in  quarrels  about  her  charms,  and  she  heard  of  these  encoun- 
ters with  pleasurable  excitement.  It  had  been  told  of  her 
that  on  one  occasion  she  had  stood  by  in  the  disguise  of  a 
page,  and  had  seen  her  lover  fall. 

As  is  so  often  the  case,  she  had  married  the  very  worst  of 
those  who  sought  her  hand.  Why  she  had  chosen  Paulo 
Neroni,  a  man  of  no  birth  and  no  property,  a  mere  captain 
in  the  pope's  guard,  one  who  had  come  up  to  Milan  either 
simply  as  an  adventurer  or  else  as  a  spy,  a  man  of  harsh 
temper  and  oily  manners,  mean  in  figure,  swarthy  in  face, 
and  so  false  in  words  as  to  be  hourly  detected,  need  not  now 
be  told.  When  the  moment  for  doing  so  came,  she  had  prob- 
ably no  alternative.  He,  at  any  rate,  had  become  her  hus- 
band ;  and  after  a  prolonged  honeymoon  among  the  lakes, 
they  had  gone  together  to  Rome,  the  papal  captain  having 
vainly  endeavoured  to  induce  his  wife  to  remain  behind  him. 

Six  months  afterwards  she  arrived  at  her  father's  house  a 
cripple,  and  a  mother.  She  had  arrived  without  even  notice, 
with  hardlv  clothes  to  cover  her,  and  without  one  of  those 

69 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

many  ornaments  which  had  graced  her  bridal  trousseau.  Her 
baby  was  in  the  arms  of  a  poor  girl  from  Milan,  whom  she 
had  taken  in  exchange  for  the  Roman  maid  who  had  accom- 
panied her  thus  far,  and  who  had  then,  as  her  mistress  said, 
become  homesick  and  had  returned.  It  was  clear  that  the 
lady  had  determined  that  there  should  be  no  witness  to  tell 
stories  of  her  life  in  Rome. 

She  had  fallen,  she  said,  in  ascending  a  ruin,  and  had  fa- 
tally injured  the  sinews  of  her  knee;  so  fatally,  that  when  she 
stood  she  lost  eight  inches  of  her  accustomed  height ;  so  fa- 
tally, that  when  she  essayed  to  move,  she  could  only  drag 
herself  painfully  along,  with  protruded  hip  and  extended  foot 
in  a  manner  less  graceful  than  that  of  a  hunchback.  She  had 
consequently  made  up  her  mind,  once  and  for  ever,  that  she 
would  never  stand,  and  never  attempt  to  move  herself. 

Stories  were  not  slow  to  follow  her,  averring  that  she  had 
been  cruelly  ill  used  by  Neroni,  and  that  to  his  violence  had 
she  owed  her  accident.  Be  that  as  it  may,  little  had  been 
said  about  her  husband,  but  that  little  had  made  it  clearly 
intelligible  to  the  family  that  Signor  Neroni  was  to  be  seen 
and  heard  of  no  more.  There  was  no  question  as  to  re- 
admitting the  poor  ill  used  beauty  to  her  old  family  rights, 
no  question  as  to  adopting  her  infant  daughter  beneath  the 
Stanhope  roof  tree.  Though  heartless,  the  Stanhopes  were 
not  selfish.  The  two  were  taken  in,  petted,  made  much  of, 
for  a  time  all  but  adored,  and  then  felt  by  the  two  parents 
to  be  great  nuisances  in  the  house.  But  in  the  house  the  lady 
was,  and  there  she  remained,  having  her  own  way,  though 
that  way  was  not  very  conformable  with  the  customary 
usages  of  an  English  clergyman. 

Madame  Neroni,  though  forced  to  give  up  all  motion  in 
the  world,  had  no  intention  whatever  of  giving  up  the  world 
itself.  The  beauty  of  her  face  was  uninjured,  and  that 
beauty  was  of  a  peculiar  kind.  Her  copious  rich  brown  hair 
was  worn  in  Grecian  bandeaux  round  her  head,  displaying 
as  much  as  possible  of  her  forehead  and  cheeks.  Her  fore- 
head, though  rather  low,  was  very  beautiful  from  its  perfect 
contour  and  pearly  whiteness.  Her  eyes  were  long  and 
large,  and  marvellously  bright ;  might  I  venture  to  say,  bright 
as  Lucifer's,  I  should  perhaps  best  express  the  depth  of  their 

70 


THE   STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

brilliancy.  They  were  dreadful  eyes  to  look  at,  such  as  would 
absolutely  deter  any  man  of  quiet  mind  and  easy  spirit  from 
attempting  a  passage  of  arms  with  such  foes.  There  was  tal- 
ent in  them,  and  the  fire  of  passion  and  the  play  of  wit,  but 
there  was  no  love.  Cruelty  was  there  instead,  and  courage, 
a  desire  of  masterhood,  cunning,  and  a  wish  for  mischief. 
And  yet,  as  eyes,  they  were  very  beautiful.  The  eyelashes 
were  long  and  perfect,  and  the  long  steady  unabashed  gaze, 
with  which  she  would  look  into  the  face  of  her  admirer,  fasci- 
nated while  it  frightened  him.  She  was  a  basilisk  from 
whom  an  ardent  lover  of  beauty  could  make  no  escape.  Her 
nose  and  mouth  and  teeth  and  chin  and  neck  and  bust  were 
perfect,  much  more  so  at  twenty-eight  than  they  had  been  at 
eighteen.  What  wonder  that  with  such  charms  still  glowing 
in  her  face,  and  with  such  deformity  destroying  her  figure, 
she  should  resolve  to  be  seen,  but  only  to  be  seen  reclining 
on  a  sofa. 

Her  resolve  had  not  been  carried  out  without  difficulty. 
She  had  still  frequented  the  opera  at  Milan;  she  had  still 
been  seen  occasionally  in  the  saloons  of  the  noblesse;  she  had 
caused  herself  to  be  carried  in  and  out  from  her  carriage,  and 
that  in  such  a  manner  as  in  no  wise  to  disturb  her  charms, 
disarrange  her  dress,  or  expose  her  deformities.  Her  sister 
always  accompanied  her  and  a  maid,  a  man-servant  also,  and 
on  state  occasions,  two.  It  was  impossible  that  her  purpose 
could  have  been  achieved  with  less  :  and  yet,  poor  as  she  was. 
she  had  achieved  her  purpose.  And  then  again  the  more  dis- 
solute Italian  youths  of  Milan  frequented  the  Stanhope  villa 
and  surrounded  her  couch,  not  greatly  to  her  father's  satis- 
faction. Sometimes  his  spirit  would  rise,  a  dark  spot  would 
show  itself  on  his  cheek,  and  he  would  rebel ;  but  Char- 
lotte would  assuage  him  with  some  peculiar  triumph  of 
her  culinary  art,  and  all  again  would  be  smooth  for  a 
while. 

Madeline  affected  all  manner  of  rich  and  quaint  devices  in 
the  garniture  of  her  room,  her  person,  and  her  feminine  be- 
longings. In  nothing  was  this  more  apparent  than  in  the 
visiting  card  which  she  had  prepared  for  her  use.  For  such 
an  article  one  would  say  that  she,  in  her  present  state,  could 
have  but  small  need,  seeing  how  improbable  it  was  that  she 

71 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

should  make  a  morning  call :  but  not  such  was  her  own  opin- 
ion. Her  card  was  surrounded  by  a  deep  border  of  gilding; 
on  this  she  had  imprinted,  in  three  Hues, — 

"  La  Signora  Madeline 

"  Vesey  Neroni. 
— Nata  Stanhope." 

And  over  the  name  she  had  a  bright  gilt  coronet,  which  cer- 
tainly looked  very  magnificent.  How  she  had  come  to  concoct 
such  a  name  for  herself  it  would  be  difficult  to  explain.  Her 
father  had  been  christened  Vesey,  as  another  man  is  chris- 
tened Thomas ;  and  she  had  no  more  right  to  assume  it  than 
would  have  the  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Josiah  Jones  to  call  herself 
Mrs.  Josiah  Smith,  on  marrying  a  man  of  the  latter  name. 
The  gold  coronet  was  equally  out  of  place,  and  perhaps  in- 
serted with  even  less  excuse.  Paulo  Neroni  had  had  not  the 
faintest  title  to  call  himself  a  scion  of  even  Italian  nobility. 
Had  the  pair  met  in  England  Neroni  would  probably  have 
been  a  count;  but  they  had  met  in  Italy,  and  any  such  pre- 
tence on  his  part  would  have  been  simply  ridiculous.  A  cor- 
onet, however,  was  a  pretty  ornament,  and  if  it  could  solace  a 
poor  cripple  to  have  such  on  her  card,  who  would  begrudge 
it  to  her? 

Of  her  husband,  or  of  his  individual  family,  she  never 
spoke ;  but  with  her  admirers  she  would  often  allude  in  a 
mysterious  way  to  her  married  life  and  isolated  state,  and, 
pointing  to  her  daughter,  would  call  her  the  last  of  the  blood 
of  the  emperors,  thus  referring  Neroni's  extraction  to  the  old 
Roman  family  from  which  the  worst  of  the  Caesars  sprang. 

The  "Signora"  was  not  without  talent  and  not  without  a 
certain  sort  of  industry ;  she  was  an  indomitable  letter  writer, 
and  her  letters  were  worth  the  postage :  they  were  full  of 
wit,  mischief,  satire,  love,  latitudinarian  philosophy,  free  re- 
ligion, and,  sometimes,  alas !  loose  ribaldry.  The  subject, 
however,  depended  entirely  on  the  recipient,  and  she  was 
prepared  to  correspond  with  any  one  but  moral  young  ladies 
or  stiff  old  women.  She  wrote  also  a  kind  of  poetry,  gener- 
ally in  Italian,  and  short  romances,  generally  in  French.  She 
read  much  of  a  desultory  sort  of  literature,  and  as  a  modern 
linguist  had  really  made  great  proficiency.     Such  was  the 

72 


THE    STANHOPE   FAMILY. 

lady  who  had  now  come  to  wound  the  hearts  of  the  men  of 
Barchester. 

Ethelbert  Stanhope  was  in  some  respects  Hke  his  younger 
sister,  but  he  was  less  inestimable  as  a  man  than  she  as  a 
woman.  His  great  fault  was  an  entire  absence  of  that  prin- 
ciple which  should  have  induced  him,  as  the  son  of  a  man 
without  fortune,  to  earn  his  own  bread.  Many  attempts  had 
been  made  to  get  him  to  do  so,  but  these  had  all  been  frus- 
trated, not  so  much  by  idleness  on  his  part,  as  by  a  disincli- 
nation to  exert  himself  in  any  way  not  to  his  taste.  He  had 
been  educated  at  Eton,  and  had  been  intended  for  the  Church, 
but  had  left  Cambridge  in  disgust  after  a  single  term,  and 
notified  to  his  father  his  intention  to  study  for  the  bar.  Pre- 
paratory to  that,  he  thought  it  well  that  he  should  attend  a 
German  university,  and  consequently  went  to  Leipsic.  There 
he  remained  two  years,  and  brought  away  a  knowledge  of 
German  and  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts.  He  still,  however,  in- 
tended himself  for  the  bar,  took  chambers,  engaged  himself 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  a  learned  pundit,  and  spent  a  season  in 
London.  He  there  found  that  all  his  aptitudes  inclined  him 
to  the  life  of  an  artist,  and  he  determined  to  live  by  painting. 
With  this  object  he  returned  to  Milan,  and  had  himself  rigged 
out  for  Rome.  As  a  painter  he  might  have  earned  his  bread, 
for  he  wanted  only  diligence  to  excel ;  'but  when  at  Rome  his 
mind  was  carried  away  by  other  things :  he  soon  wrote  home 
for  money,  saying  that  he  had  been  converted  to  the  Mother 
Church,  that  he  was  already  an  acolyte  of  the  Jesuits,  and 
that  he  was  about  to  start  with  others  to  Palestine  on  a  mis- 
sion for  converting  Jews.  He  did  go  to  Judea,  but  being 
unable  to  convert  the  Jews,  was  converted  by  them.  He 
again  wrote  home,  to  say  that  Moses  was  the  only  giver  of 
perfect  laws  to  the  world,  that  the  coming  of  the  true  Messiah 
was  at  hand,  that  great  things  were  doing  in  Palestine,  and 
that  he  had  met  one  of  the  family  of  Sidonia,  a  most  remark- 
able man,  who  was  now  on  his  way  to  Western  Europe,  and 
whom  he  had  induced  to  deviate  from  his  route  with  the  ob- 
ject of  calling  at  the  Stanhope  villa.  Ethelbert  then  ex- 
pressed his  hope  that  his  mother  and  sisters  would  listen  to 
this  wonderful  prophet.  His  father  he  knew  could  not  do 
so  from  pecuniary  considerations.     This  Sidonia,   however, 

73 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

did  not  take  so  strong  a  fancy  to  him  as  another  of  that  family 
once  did  to  a  young  English  nobleman.  At  least  he  provided 
him  with  no  heaps  of  gold  as  large  as  lions ;  so  that  the 
Judaised  Ethelbert  was  again  obliged  to  draw  on  the  rev- 
enues of  the  Christian  Church. 

It  is  needless  to  tell  how  the  father  swore  that  he  would 
send  no  more  money  and  receive  no  Jew ;  nor  how  Charlotte 
declared  that  Ethelbert  could  not  be  left  penniless  in  Jerusa- 
lem, and  how  "La  Signora  Neroni"  resolved  to  have  Sidonia 
at  her  feet.  The  money  was  sent,  and  the  Jew  did  come. 
The  Jew  did  come,  but  he  was  not  at  all  to  the  taste  of  "La 
Signora."  He  was  a  dirty  little  old  man,  and  though  he  had 
provided  no  golden  lions,  he  had,  it  seems,  relieved  young 
Stanhope's  necessities.  He  positively  refused  to  leave  the 
villa  till  he  had  got  a  bill  from  the  doctor  on  his  London 
bankers. 

Ethelbert  did  not  long  remain  a  Jew.  He  soon  re-appeared 
at  the  villa  without  prejudices  on  the  subject  of  his  religion, 
and  with  a  firm  resolve  to  achieve  fame  and  fortune  as  a 
sculptor.  He  brought  with  him  some  models  which  he  had 
originated  at  Rome,  and  which  really  gave  such  fair  promise 
that  his  father  was  induced  to  go  to  further  expense  in  fur- 
thering these  view's.  Ethelbert  opened  an  establishment,  or 
rather  took  lodgings  and  a  workshop,  at  Carrara,  and  there 
spoilt  much  marble,  and  made  some  few  pretty  images.  Since 
that  period,  now  four  years  ago,  he  had  alternated  between 
Carrara  and  the  villa,  but  his  sojourns  at  the  workshop  be- 
came shorter  and  shorter,  and  those  at  the  villa  longer  and 
longer.  'Twas  no  wonder ;  for  Carrara  is  not  a  spot  in  which 
an  Englishman  would  like  to  dwell. 

When  the  family  started  for  England  he  had  resolved  not 
to  be  left  behind,  and  with  the  assistance  of  his  elder  sister 
had  carried  his  point  against  his  father's  wishes.  It  was 
necessary,  he  said,  that  he  should  come  to  England  for  orders. 
How  otherwise  was  he  to  bring  his  profession  to  account? 

In  personal  appearance  Ethelbert  Stanhope  was  the  most 
singular  of  beings.  He  was  certainly  very  handsome.  He 
had  his  sister  Madeline's  eyes  without  their  stare,  and  with- 
out their  hard  cunning  cruel  firmness.  They  were  also  very 
much  lighter,  and  of  so  light  and  clear  a  blue  as  to  make  his 

74 


THE   STANHOPE    FAMILY. 

face  remarkable,  if  nothing  else  did  so.  On  entering  a  room 
with  him,  Ethelbert's  blue  eyes  would  be  the  first  thing  you 
would  see,  and  on  leaving  it  almost  the  last  you  would  forget. 
His  light  hair  was  very  long  and  silky,  coming  down  over  his 
coat.  His  beard  had  been  prepared  in  holy  land,  and  was 
patriarchal.  He  never  shaved,  and  rarely  trimmed  it.  It 
was  glossy,  soft,  clean,  and  altogether  not  unprepossessing. 
It  was  such,  that  ladies  might  desire  to  reel  it  off  and  work 
it  into  their  patterns  in  lieu  of  floss  silk.  His  complexion 
was  fair  and  almost  pink,  he  was  small  in  height,  and  slender 
in  limb,  but  well-made,  and  his  voice  was  of  peculiar 
sweetness. 

In  manner  and  dress  he  was  equally  remarkable.  He  had 
none  of  the  mauvaise  honte  of  an  Englishman.  He  required 
no  introduction  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  any  person.  He 
habitually  addressed  strangers,  ladies  as  well  as  men,  without 
any  such  formality,  and  in  doing  so  never  seemed  to  meet 
with  rebuke.  His  costume  cannot  be  described,  because  it 
was  so  various;  but  it  was  always  totally  opposed  in  every 
principle  of  colour  and  construction  to  the  dress  of  those  with 
whom  he  for  the  time  consorted. 

He  was  habitually  addicted  to  making  love  to  ladies,  and 
did  so  without  any  scruple  of  conscience,  or  any  idea  that 
such  a  practice  was  amiss.  He  had  no  heart  to  touch  him- 
self, and  was  literally  unaware  that  humanity  was  subject  to 
such  an  infliction.  He  had  not  thought  much  about  it ;  but, 
had  he  been  asked,  would  have  said,  that  ill-treating  a  lady's 
heart  meant  injuring  her  promotion  in  the  world.  His  prin- 
ciples therefore  forbade  him  to  pay  attention  to  a  girl,  if  he 
thought  any  man  was  present  whom  it  might  suit  her  to 
marry.  In  this  manner,  his  good  nature  frequently  interfered 
with  his  amusement ;  but  he  had  no  other  motive  in  abstaining 
from  the  fullest  declarations  of  love  to  every  girl  that  pleased 
his  eye. 

Bertie  Stanhope,  as  he  was  generally  called,  was,  however, 
popular  with  both  sexes ;  and  with  Italians  as  well  as  English. 
His  circle  of  acquaintance  was  very  large,  and  embraced  peo- 
ple of  all  sorts.  He  had  no  respect  for  rank,  and  no  aversion 
to  those  below  him.  He  had  lived  on  familiar  terms  with 
English  peers,  German  shopkeepers,  and  Roman  priests.     All 

75 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

people  were  nearly  alike  to  him.  He  was  above,  or  rather 
below,  all  prejudices.  No  virtue  could  charm  him,  no  vice 
shock  him.  He  had  about  him  a  natural  good  manner,  which 
seemed  to  qualify  him  for  the  highest  circles,  and  yet  he  was 
never  out  of  place  in  the  lowest.  He  had  no  principle,  no 
regard  for  others,  no  self-respect,  no  desire  to  be  other  than 
a  drone  in  the  hive,  if  only  he  could,  as  a  drone,  get  what 
honey  was  sufficient  for  him.  Of  honey,  in  his  latter  days, 
it  may  probably  be  presaged,  that  he  will  have  but  short 
allowance. 

Such  was  the  family  of  the  Stanhopes,  who,  at  this  period, 
suddenly  joined  themselves  to  the  ecclesiastical  circle  of  Bar- 
chester  close.  Any  stranger  union,  it  would  be  impossible 
perhaps  to  conceive.  And  it  was  not  as  though  they  all  fell 
down  into  the  cathedral  precincts  hitherto  unknown  and  un- 
talked  of.  In  such  case  no  amalgamation  would  have  been 
at  all  probable  between  the  new-comers  and  either  the 
Proudie  set  or  the  Grantly  set.  But  such  was  far  from  being 
the  case.  The  Stanhopes  were  all  known  by  name  in  Bar- 
chester,  and  Barchester  was  prepared  to  receive  them  with 
open  arms.  The  doctor  was  one  of  her  prebendaries,  one  of 
her  rectors,  one  of  her  pillars  of  strength ;  and  was,  more- 
over, counted  on,  as  a  sure  ally,  both  by  Proudies  and 
Grantlys. 

He  himself  was  the  brother  of  one  peer,  and  his  wife  was 
the  sister  of  another — and  both  these  peers  were  lords  of 
whiggish  tendency,  with  whom  the  new  bishop  had  some  sort 
of  alliance.  This  was  sufficient  to  give  to  Mr.  Slope  high 
hope  that  he  might  enlist  Dr.  Stanhope  on  his  side,  before  his 
enemies  could  outmanoeuvre  him.  On  the  other  hand,  the  old 
dean  had  many  many  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  doctor's 
clerical  energies,  been  instrumental  in  assisting  him  in  his 
views  as  to  preferment ;  and  many  many  years  ago  also,  the 
two  doctors.  Stanhope  and  Grantly,  had,  as  young  parsons, 
been  joyous  together  in  the  common  rooms  of  Oxford.  Dr. 
Grantly,  consequently,  did  not  doubt  but  that  the  new-comer 
would  range  himself  under  his  banners. 

Little  did  any  of  them  dream  of  what  ingredients  the  Stan- 
hope family  was  now  composed. 

76 


MR&.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— COMMENCED. 
CHAPTER   X. 

MRS.    PROUDIE's    reception — COMMENCED. 

THE  bishop  and  his  wife  had  only  spent  three  or  four 
days  in  Barchester  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  visit. 
His  lordship  had,  as  we  have  seen,  taken  his  seat  on  his 
throne ;  but  his  demeanour  there,  into  which  it  had  been  his 
intention  to  infuse  much  hierarchal  dignity,  had  been  a  good 
deal  disarranged  by  the  audacity  of  his  chaplain's  sermon.  He 
had  hardly  dared  to  look  his  clergy  in  the  face,  and  to  declare 
by  the  severity  of  his  countenance  that  in  truth  he  meant  all 
that  his  factotum  was  saying  on  his  behalf ;  nor  yet  did  he 
dare  to  throw  Mr.  Slope  over,  and  show  to  those  around  him 
that  he  was  no  party  to  the  sermon,  and  would  resent  it. 

He  had  accordingly  blessed  his  people  in  a  shambling  man- 
ner, not  at  all  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and  had  walked  back 
to  his  palace  with  his  mind  very  doubtful  as  to  what  he  would 
say  to  his  chaplain  on  the  subject.  He  did  not  remain  long 
in  doubt.  He  had  hardly  doffed  his  lawn  when  the  partner 
of  all  his  toils  entered  his  study,  and  exclaimed  even  before 
she  had  seated  herself — 

"Bishop,  did  you  ever  hear  a  more  sublime,  more  spirit- 
moving,  more  appropriate  discourse  than  that  ?" 

"Well,  my  love;  ha — hum — he!"  The  bishop  did  not 
know  what  to  say. 

"I  hope,  my  lord,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  disapprove?" 

There  was  a  look  about  the  lady's  eye  which  did  not  ad- 
mit of  my  lord's  disapproving  at  that  moment.  He  felt  that 
if  he  intended  to  disapprove,  it  must  be  now  or  never ;  but  he 
also  felt  that  it  could  not  be  now.  It  was  not  in  him  to  say 
to  the  wife  of  his  bosom  that  Mr.  Slope's  sermon  was  ill- 
timed,  impertinent  and  vexatious. 

"No,  no,"  replied  the  bishop.  "No,  I  can't  say  I  disap- 
prove— a  very  clever  sermon  and  very  well  intended,  and  I 
dare  say  will  do  a  great  deal  of  good."  This  last  praise  was 
added,  seeing  that  what  he  had  already  said  by  no  means 
satisfied  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"I  hope  it  will,"  said  she.     "I  am  sure  it  was  well  deserved. 

17 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Did  you  ever  in  your  life,  bishop,  hear  anything  so  like  play- 
acting- as  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Harding  sings  the  litany? 
I  shall  beg  Mr.  Slope  to  continue  a  course  of  sermons  on  the 
subject  till  all  that  is  altered.  We  will  have  at  any  rate,  in 
our  cathedral,  a  decent,  godly,  modest  morning  service. 
There  must  be  no  more  play-acting  here  now;"  and  so  the 
lady  rang  for  lunch. 

The  bishop  knew  more  about  cathedrals  and  deans,  and 
precentors  and  church  services  than  his  wife  did,  and  also 
more  of  a  bishop's  powers.  But  he  thought  it  better  at  pres- 
ent to  let  the  subject  drop. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "I  think  we  must  go  back  to  London 
on  Tuesday.  I  find  my  staying  here  will  be  very  incon- 
venient to  the  Government." 

The  bishop  knew  that  to  this  proposal  his  wife  would  not 
object;  and  he  also  felt  that  by  thus  retreating  from  the 
ground  of  battle,  the  heat  of  the  fight  might  be  got  over  in 
his  absence. 

"Mr.  Slope  will  remain  here,  of  course?"  said  the  lady. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  the  bishop. 

Thus,  after  less  than  a  week's  sojourn  in  his  palace,  did 
the  bishop  fly  from  Barchester ;  nor  did  he  return  to  it  for 
two  months,  the  London  season  being  then  over.  During 
that  time  Mr.  Slope  was  not  idle,  but  he  did  not  again  essay 
to  preach  in  the  cathedral.  In  answer  to  Mrs.  Proudie's  let- 
ters, advising  a  course  of  sermons,  he  had  pleaded  that  he 
would  at  any  rate  wish  to  put  off  such  an  undertaking  till  she 
was  there  to  hear  them. 

He  had  employed  his  time  in  consolidating  a  Proudie  and 
Slope  party — or  rather  a  Slope  and  Proudie  party,  and  he 
had  not  employed  his  time  in  vain.  He  did  not  meddle  with 
the  dean  and  chapter,  except  by  giving  them  little  teasing 
intimations  of  the  bishop's  wishes  about  this  and  the  bishop's 
feelings  about  that,  in  a  manner  which  was  to  them  suffi- 
ciently annoying,  but  which  they  could  not  resent.  He 
preached  once  or  twice  in  a  distant  church  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  city,  but  made  no  allusion  to  the  cathedral  service.  He 
commenced  the  establishment  of  two  "Bishop's  Barchester 
Sabbath-day  Schools,"  gave  notice  of  a  proposed  "Bishop's 
Barchester  Young  Men's  Sabbath  Evening  Lecture  Room," 

78 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— COMMENCED. 

— and  wrote  three  or  four  letters  to  the  manager  of  the  Bar- 
chester  branch  railway,  informing  him  how  anxious  the 
bishop  was  that  the  Sunday  trains  should  be  discontinued. 

At  the  end  of  two  months,  however,  the  bishop  and  the 
lady  reappeared;  and  as  a  happy  harbinger  of  their  return, 
heralded  their  advent  by  the  promise  of  an  evening  party  on 
the  largest  scale.  The  tickets  of  invitation  were  sent  out 
from  London — they  were  dated  from  Bruton  Street,  and  were 
despatched  by  the  odious  Sabbath  breaking  railway,  in  a  huge 
brown  paper  parcel  to  Mr.  Slope.  Everybody  calling  him- 
self a  gentleman,  or  herself  a  lady,  within  the  city  of  Bar- 
chester,  and  a  circle  of  two  miles  round  it,  was  included. 
Tickets  were  sent  to  all  the  diocesan  clergy,  and  also  to  many 
other  persons  of  priestly  note,  of  whose  absence  the  bishop, 
or  at  least  the  bishop's  wife,  felt  tolerably  confident.  It  was 
intended,  however,  to  be  a  thronged  and  noticeable  affair, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  receiving  some  hundreds. 

And  now  there  arose  considerable  agitation  among  the 
Grantlyites  whether  or  no  they  would  attend  the  episcopal 
bidding.  The  first  feeling  with  them  all  was  to  send  the 
briefest  excuses  both  for  themselves  and  their  wives  and 
daughters.  But  by  degrees  policy  prevailed  over  passion. 
The  archdeacon  perceived  that  he  would  be  making  a  false 
step  if  he  allowed  the  cathedral  clergy  to  give  the  bishop  just 
ground  of  umbrage.  They  all  met  in  conclave  and  agreed  to 
go.  They  would  show  that  they  were  willing  to  respect  the 
office,  much  as  they  might  dislike  the  man.  They  agreed  to 
go.  The  old  dean  would  crawl  in,  if  it  were  but  for  half  an 
hour.  The  chancellor,  treasurer,  archdeacon,  prebendaries, 
and  minor  canons  would  all  go,  and  would  all  take  their 
wives.  Mr.  Harding  was  especially  bidden  to  do  so,  resolv- 
ing in  his  heart  to  keep  himself  far  removed  from  Mrs. 
Proudie,  And  Mrs.  Bold  was  determined  to  go,  though  as- 
sured by  her  father  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  such  a 
sacrifice  on  her  part.  When  all  Barchester  was  to  be  there, 
neither  Eleanor  nor  Mary  Bold  understood  why  they  should 
stay  away.  Had  they  not  been  invited  separately?  and  had 
not  a  separate  little  note  from  the  chaplain,  couched  in  the 
most  respectful  language,  been  enclosed  with  the  huge  epis- 
copal card? 

79 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

And  the  Stanhopes  would  be  there,  one  and  all.  Even  the 
lethargic  mother  would  so  far  bestir  herself  on  such  an  occa- 
sion. They  had  only  just  arrived.  The  card  was  at  the 
residence  waiting  for  them.  No  one  in  Barchester  had  seen 
them ;  and  what  better  opportunity  could  they  have  of  show- 
ing themselves  to  the  Barchester  world?  Some  few  old 
friends,  such  as  the  archdeacon  and  his  wife,  had  called,  and 
had  found  the  doctor  and  his  eldest  daughter ;  but  the  elite  of 
the  family  were  not  yet  known. 

The  doctor  indeed  wished  in  his  heart  to  prevent  the  sig- 
nora  from  accepting  the  bishop's  invitation ;  but  she  herself 
had  fully  determined  that  she  would  accept  it.  If  her  father 
was  ashamed  of  having  his  daughter  carried  into  a  bishop's 
palace,  she  had  no  such  feeling. 

"Indeed,  I  shall,"  she  had  said  to  her  sister  who  had  gently 
endeavoured  to  dissuade  her,  by  saying  that  the  company 
would  consist  wholly  of  parsons  and  parsons'  wives.  "Par- 
sons, I  suppose,  are  much  the  same  as  other  men,  if  you  strip 
them  of  their  black  coats ;  and  as  to  their  wives,  I  dare  say 
they  won't  trouble  me.  You  may  tell  papa  I  don't  at  all 
mean  to  be  left  at  home." 

Papa  was  told,  and  felt  that  he  could  do  nothing  but  yield. 
He  also  felt  that  it  was  useless  for  him  now  to  be  ashamed  of 
his  children.  Such  as  they  were,  they  had  become  such  un- 
der his  auspices ;  as  he  had  made  his  bed,  so  he  must  lie  upon 
it;  as  he  had  sown  his  seed,  so  must  he  reap. his  corn.  He 
did  not  indeed  utter  such  reflections  in  such  language,  but 
such  was  the  gist  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  because  Made- 
line was  a  cripple  that  he  shrank  from  seeing  her  make  one 
of  the  bishop's  guests,  but  because  he  knew  that  she  would 
practise  her  accustomed  lures,  and  behave  herself  in  a  way 
that  could  not  fail  of  being  distasteful  to  the  propriety  of 
Englishwomen.  These  things  had  annoyed  but  not  shocked 
him  in  Italy.  There  they  had  shocked  no  one ;  but  here  in 
Barchester,  here  among  his  fellow  parsons,  he  was  ashamed 
that  they  should  be  seen.  Such  had  been  his  feelings,  but  he 
repressed  them.  What  if  his  brother  clergymen  were 
shocked!  They  could  not  take  from  him  his  preferment 
because  the  manners  of  his  married  daughter  were  too 
free. 

80 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— COMMENCED. 

La  Signora  Neroni  had,  at  any  rate,  no  fear  that  she  would 
shock  anybody.  Her  ambition  was  to  create  a  sensation,  to 
have  parsons  at  her  feet,  seeing  that  the  manhood  of  Bar- 
chester  consisted  mainly  of  parsons,  and  to  send,  if  possible, 
every  parson's  wife  home  with  a  green  fit  of  jealousy.  None 
could  be  too  old  for  her,  and  hardly  any  too  young.  None 
too  sanctified,  and  none  too  worldly.  She  was  quite 
prepared  to  entrap  the  bishop  himself,  and  then  to  turn 
up  her  nose  at  the  bishop's  wife.  She  did  not  doubt  of 
success,  for  she  had  always  succeeded;  but  one  thing  was 
absolutely  necessary,  she  must  secure  the  entire  use  of  a 
sofa. 

The  card  sent  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Stanhope  and  family,  had 
been  so  sent  in  an  envelope,  having  on  the  cover  Mr.  Slope's 
name.  The  signora  soon  learnt  that  Mrs.  Proudie  was  not 
yet  at  the  palace,  and  that  the  chaplain  was  managing  every- 
thing. It  was  much  more  in  her  line  to  apply  to  him  than 
to  the  lady,  and  she  accordingly  wrote  him  the  prettiest  little 
billet  in  the  world.  In  five  lines  she  explained  everything, 
declared  how  impossible  it  was  for  her  not  to  be  desirous  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  such  persons  as  the  Bishop  of  Bar- 
chester  and  his  wife,  and  she  might  add  also  of  Mr.  Slope, 
depicted  her  own  grievous  state,  and  concluded  by  being  as- 
sured that  Mrs.  Proudie  would  forgive  her  extreme  hardi- 
hood in  petitioning  to  be  allowed  to  be  carried  to  a  sofa.  She 
then  enclosed  one  of  her  beautiful  cards.  In  return  she  re- 
ceived as  polite  an  answer  from  Mr.  Slope — a  sofa  should  be 
kept  in  the  large  drawing-room,  immediately  at  the  top  of 
the  grand  stairs,  especially  for  her  use. 

And  now  the  day  of  the  party  had  arrived.  The  bishop 
and  his  wife  came  down  from  town,  only  on  the  morning  of 
the  eventful  day,  as  behoved  such  great  people  to  do;  but 
Mr.  Slope  had  toiled  day  and  night  to  see  that  everything 
should  be  in  right  order.  There  had  been  much  to  do.  No 
company  had  been  seen  in  the  palace  since  heaven  knows 
when.  New  furniture  had  been  required,  new  pots  and 
pans,  new  cups  and  saucers,  new  dishes  and  plates.  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  at  first  declared  that  she  would  condescend  to 
nothing  so  vulgar  as  eating  and  drinking;  but  Mr.  Slope  had 
talked,  or  rather  written  her  out  of  economy!  Bishops 
•  8i 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

should  be  given  to  hospitality,  and  hospitality  meant  eating 
and  drinking.  So  the  supper  was  conceded ;  the  guests, 
however,  were  to  stand  as  they  consumed  it. 

There  were  four  rooms  opening  into  each  other  on  the  first 
floor  of  the  house,  which  were  denominated  the  drawing- 
rooms,  the  reception-room,  and  Mrs.  Proudie's  boudoir.  In 
olden  days  one  of  these  had  been  Bishop  Grantly's  bedroom, 
and  another  his  common  sitting-room  and  study.  The  pres- 
ent bishop,  however,  had  been  moved  down  into  a  back  par- 
lour, and  had  been  given  to  understand,  that  he  could  very 
well  receive  his  clergy  in  the  dining-room,  should  they  arrive 
in  too  large  a  flock  to  be  admitted  into  his  small  sanctum. 
He  had  been  unwilling  to  yield,  but  after  a  short  debate  had 
yielded. 

Mrs.  Proudie's  heart  beat  high  as  she  inspected  her  suite 
of  rooms.  They  were  really  very  magnificent,  or  at  least 
would  be  so  by  candlelight;  and  they  had  nevertheless  been 
got  up  with  commendable  economy.  Large  rooms  when  full 
of  people  and  full  of  light  look  well,  because  they  are  large, 
and  are  full,  and  are  light.  Small  rooms  are  those  which 
require  costly  fittings  and  rich  furniture.  Mrs.  Proudie 
knew  this,  and  made  the  most  of  it ;  she  had  therefore  a 
huge  gas  lamp  with  a  dozen  burners  hanging  from  each  of 
the  ceilings. 

People  were  to  arrive  at  ten,  supper  was  to  last  from 
twelve  till  one,  and  at  half-past  one  every  body  was  to  be 
gone.  Carriages  were  to  come  in  at  the  gate  in  the  town 
and  depart  at  the  gate  outside.  They  were  desired  to  take 
up  at  a  quarter  before  one.  It  was  managed  excellently,  and 
Mr.  Slope  was  invaluable. 

At  half-past  nine  the  bishop  and  his  wife  and  their  three 
daughters  entered  the  great  reception  room,  and  very  grand 
and  very  solemn  they  were.  Mr.  Slope  was  down  stairs  giv- 
ing the  last  orders  about  the  wine.  He  well  understood  that 
curates"  and  country  vicars  with  their  belongings  did  not  re- 
quire so  generous  an  article  as  the  dignitaries  of  the  close. 
There  is  a  useful  gradation  in  such  things,  and  Marsala  at 
20S.  a  dozen  did  very  well  for  the  exterior  supplementary 
tables  in  the  corner. 

"Bishop,"  said  the  lady,  as  his  lordship  sat  himself  down, 

82 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— COMMENCED. 

"don't  sit  on  that  sofa,  if  you  please ;  it  is  to  be  kept  separate 
for  a  lady." 

The  bishop  jumped  up  and  seated  himself  on  a  cane-bot- 
tomed chair.  "A  lady?"  he  inquired  meekly;  "do  you  mean 
one  particular  lady,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  Bishop,  one  particular  lady,"  said  his  wife,  disdain- 
ing to  explain. 

"She  has  got  no  legs,  papa,"  said  the  youngest  daughter, 
tittering. 

"No  legs !"  said  the  bishop,  opening  his  eyes. 

"Nonsense,  Netta,  what  stuff  you  talk,"  said  Olivia.  "She 
has  got  legs,  but  she  can't  use  them.  She  has  always  to  be 
kept  lying  down,  and  three  or  four  men  carry  her  about 
everywhere." 

"Laws,  how  odd !"  said  Augusta.  "Always  carried  about 
by  four  men !  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  like  it.  Am  I  right  be- 
hind, mamma?  I  feel  as  if  I  was  open;"  and  she  turned  her 
back  to  her  anxious  parent. 
.  "Open !  to  be  sure  you  are,"  said  she,  "and  a  yard  of  petti- 
coat string  hanging  out.  I  don't  know  why  I  pay  such  high 
wages  to  Mrs.  Richards,  if  she  can't  take  the  trouble  to  see 
whether  or  no  you  are  fit  to  be  looked  at,"  and  Mrs.  Proudie 
poked  the  strings  here,  and  twitched  the  dress  there,  and 
gave  her  daughter  a  shove  and  a  shake,  and  then  pronounced 
it  all  right. 

"But,"  rejoined  the  bishop,  who  was  dying  with  curiosity 
about  the  mysterious  lady  and  her  legs,  "who  is  it  that  is  to 
have  the  sofa?     What's  her  name,  Netta?" 

A  thundering  rap  at  the  front  door  interrupted  the  conver- 
sation. Mrs.  Proudie  stood  up  and  shook  herself  gently,  and 
touched  her  cap  on  each  side  as  she  looked  in  the  mirror. 
Each  of  the  girls  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  re-arranged  the  bows 
on  their  bosoms ;  and  Mr.  Slope  rushed  up  stairs  three  steps 
at  a  time. 

"But  who  is  it,  Netta  ?"  whispered  the  bishop  to  his  young- 
est daughter. 

"La  Signora  Madeline  Vesey  Neroni,"  whispered  back  the 
daughter;  "and  mind  you  don't  let  any  one  sit  upon  the 
sofa." 

"La  Signora  Madeline  Vicinironi !"  muttered,  to  himself, 

83 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

the  bewildered  prelate.  Had  he  been  told  that  the  Begum 
of  Oude  was  to  be  there,  or  Queen  Pomara  of  the  Western 
Isles,  he  could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  La  Signora 
Madeline  Vicinironi,  who,  having  no  legs  to  stand  on,  had 
bespoken  a  sofa  in  his  drawing-room ! — who  could  she  be  ? 
He  however  could  now  make  no  further  inquiry,  as  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Stanhope  were  announced.  They  had  been  sent  on  out 
of  the  way  a  little  before  the  time,  in  order  that  the  signora 
might  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  herself  conveniently  packed 
into  the  carriage. 

The  bishop  was  all  smiles  for  the  prebendary's  wife,  and 
the  bishop's  wife  was  all  smiles  for  the  prebendary.  Mr. 
Slope  was  presented,  and  was  delighted  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  one  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much.  The  doc- 
tor bowed  very  low,  and  then  looked  as  though  he  could  not 
return  the  compliment  as  regarded  Mr.  Slope,  of  whom,  in- 
deed, he  had  heard  nothing.  The  doctor,  in  spite  of  his  long 
absence,  knew  an  English  gentleman  when  he  saw  him. 

And  then  the  guests  came  in  shoals  :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quiver- 
ful and  their  three  grown  daughters.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  and  their  three  daughters.  The  burly  chancellor  and 
his  wife  and  clerical  son  from  Oxford.  The  meagre  little 
doctor  without  incumbrance.  Mr.  Harding  with  Eleanor 
and  Miss  Bold.  The  dean  leaning  on  a  gaunt  spinster,  his 
only  child  now  living  with  him,  a  lady  very  learned  in  stones, 
ferns,  plants,  and  vermin,  and  who  had  written  a  book  about 
petals.  A  wonderful  woman  in  her  way  was  Miss  Trefoil. 
Mr.  Finnic,  the  attorney,  with  his  wife,  was  to  be  seen  much 
to  the  dismay  of  many  who  had  never  met  him  in  a  drawing- 
room  before.  The  five  Barchester  doctors  were  all  there,  and 
old  Scalpen,  the  retired  apothecary  and  tooth-drawer,  who 
was  first  taught  to  consider  himself  as  belonging  to  the 
higher  orders  by  the  receipt  of  the  bishop's  card.  Then  came 
the  archdeacon  and  his  wife,  with  their  elder  daughter  Gris- 
elda,  a  slim  pale  retiring  girl  of  seventeen,  who  kept  close 
to  her  mother,  and  looked  out  on  the  world  with  quiet  watch- 
ful eyes,  one  who  gave  promise  of  much  beauty  when  time 
should  have  ripened  it. 

And  so  the  rooms  became  full,  and  knots  were  formed, 
and   every  new   comer   paid   his   respects   to  my   lord   and 

84 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— COMMENCED. 

passed  on,  not  presuming  to  occupy  too  much  of  the  great 
man's  attention.  The  archdeacon  shook  hands  very  heartily 
with  Doctor  Stanhope,  and  Mrs.  Grantly  seated  herself  by 
the  doctor's  wife.  And  Mrs.  Proudie  moved  about  with 
well  regulated  grace,  measuring  out  the  quantity  of  her 
favours  to  the  quality  of  her  guests,  just  as  Mr.  Slope  had 
been  doing  with  the  wine.  But  the  sofa  was  still  empty,  and 
five-and-twenty  ladies  and  five  gentlemen  had  been  courte- 
ously warned  off  it  by  the  mindful  chaplain. 

"Why  doesn't  she  come?"  said  the  bishop  to  himself.  His 
mind  was  so  preoccupied  with  the  signora,  that  he  hardly 
remembered  how  to  behave  himself  en  bishop. 

At  last  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  hall  steps  with  a  very 
different  manner  of  approach  from  that  of  any  other  vehicle 
that  had  been  there  that  evening.  A  perfect  commotion 
took  place.  The  doctor,  who  heard  it  as  he  was  standing  in 
the  drawing-room,  knew  that  his  daughter  was  coming,  and 
retired  into  the  furthest  corner,  where  he  might  not  see  her 
entrance.  Mrs.  Proudie  perked  herself  up,  feeling  that  some 
important  piece  of  business  was  in  hand.  The  bishop  was 
instinctively  aware  that  La  Signora  Vicinironi  was  come  at 
last,  and  Mr.  Slope  hurried  into  the  hall  to  give  his  assist- 
ance. 

He  was,  however,  nearly  knocked  down  and  trampled  on 
by  the  cortege  that  he  encountered  on  the  hall  steps.  He 
got  himself  picked  up  as  well  as  he  could,  and  followed  the 
cortege  up  stairs.  The  signora  was  carried  head  foremost, 
her  head  being  the  care  of  her  brother  and  an  Italian  man 
servant  who  was  accustomed  to  the  work ;  her  feet  were  in 
the  care  of  the  lady's  maid  and  the  lady's  Italian  page ;  and 
Charlotte  Stanhope  followed  to  see  that  all  was  done  with 
due  grace  and  decorum.  In  this  manner  they  climbed  easily 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  a  broad  way  through  the  crowd 
having  been  opened,  the  signora  rested  safely  on  her  couch. 
She  had  sent  a  servant  beforehand  to  learn  whether  it  was  a 
right  or  a  left  hand  sofa,  for  it  required  that  she  should  dress 
accordingly,  particularly  as  regarded  her  bracelets. 

And  very  becoming  her  dress  was.  It  was  white  velvet, 
without  any  other  garniture  than  rich  white  lace  worked 
with  pearls  across  her  bosom,  and  the  same  round  the  arm- 

85 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

lets  of  her  dress.     Across  her  brow  she  wore  a  band  of  red 
velvet,  on  the  centre  of  which  shone  a  magnificent   Cupid 
in  mosaic,  the  tints  of  whose  wings  were  of  the  most  lovely 
azure,  and  the  colour  of  his  chubby  cheeks  the  clearest  pink. 
On  the  one  arm  which  her  position  required  her  to  expose 
she  wore  three  magnificent  bracelets,  each  of  different  stones. 
Beneath  her  on  the  sofa,  and  over  the  cushion  and  head  of  it, 
was  spread  a  crimson  silk  mantle  or  shawl,  which  went  under 
her  whole  body  and  concealed  her  feet.     Dressed  as  she  was 
and  looking  as  she  did,  so  beautiful  and  yet  so  motionless., 
with  the  pure  brilliancy  of  her  white  dress  brought  out  and 
strengthened  by  the  colour  beneath  it,  with  that  lovely  head, 
and  those  large  bold  bright  staring  eyes,  it  was  impossible 
that  either  man  or  woman  should  do  other  than  look  at  her. 
Neither  man  nor  woman  for  some  minutes  did  do  other. 
Her  bearers  too  were  worthy  of  note.    The  three  servants 
were  Italian,  and  though  perhaps  not  peculiar  in  their  own 
country  were  very  much  so  in  the  palace  at  Barchester.    The 
man  especially  attracted  notice,  and  created  a  doubt  in  the 
mind  of  some  whether  he  were  a  friend  or  a  domestic.     The 
same  doubt  was  felt  as  to  Ethelbert.     The  man  was  attired 
in  a  loose  fitting  common  black  cloth  morning  coat.     He  had 
a  jaunty  fat  well-pleased  clean  face,  on  which  no  atom  of 
beard  appeared,  and  he  wore  round  his  neck  a  loose  black 
silk   neckhandkerchief.      The   bishop    essayed   to   make   him 
a  bow,  but  the  man,  who  was  well-trained,  took  no  notice 
of  him,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  quite  at  his  ease,  fol- 
lowed by  the  woman  and  the  boy. 

Ethelbert  Stanhope  was  dressed  in  light  blue  from  head 
to  foot.  He  had  on  the  loosest  possible  blue  coat,  cut  square 
like  a  shooting  coat,  and  very  short.  It  was  lined  with  silk 
of  azure  blue.  He  had  on  a  blue  satin  waistcoat,  a  blue  neck- 
handkerchief  which  was  fastened  beneath  his  throat  with 
a  coral  ring,  and  very  loose  blue  trowsers  which  almost  con- 
cealed his  feet.  His  soft  glossy  beard  was  softer  and  more 
glossy  than  ever. 

The  bishop,  who  had  made  one  mistake,  thought  that  he 
also  was  a  servant,  and  therefore  tried  to  make  way  for  him 
to  pass.    But  Ethelbert  soon  corrected  the  error. 

86 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 
CHAPTER  XI. 

MRS.    PROUDIE's    reception — CONCLUDED. 

""DISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER,  I  presume?"  said  Bertie 
-U  Stanhope,  putting  out  his  hand,  frankly ;  "I  am  de- 
lighted to  make  your  acquaintance.  We  are  in  rather  close 
quarters  here,  a'nt  we?" 

In  truth  they  were.  They  had  been  crowded  up  behind 
the  head  of  the  sofa :  the  bishop  in  waiting  to  receive  his 
guest,  and  the  other  in  carrying  her;  and  they  now  had 
hardly  room  to  move  themselves. 

The  bishop  gave  his  hand  quickly,  and  made  his  little 
studied  bow,  and  was  delighted  to  make — ■■ — .  He  couldn't 
go  on,  for  he  did  not  know  whether  his  friend  was  a  signor, 
or  a  count,  or  a  prince. 

"My  sister  really  puts  you  all  to  great  trouble,"  said 
Bertie. 

"Not  at  all !"  The  bishop  was  delighted  to  have  the  op- 
portunity of  welcoming  the  Signora  Vicinironi — so  at  least 
he  said — and  attempted  to  force  his  way  round  to  the  front 
of  the  sofa.  He  had,  at  any  rate,  learnt  that  his  strange 
guests  were  brother  and  sister.  The  man,  he  presumed,  must 
be  Signor  Vicinironi, — or  count,  or  prince,  as  it  might  be. 
It  was  wonderful  what  good  English  he  spoke.  There  was 
just  a  twang  of  foreign  accent,  and  no  more. 

"Do  you  like  Barchester  on  the  whole?"  asked  Bertie. 

The  bishop,  looking  dignified,  said  that  he  did  like  Bar- 
chester. 

"You've  not  been  here  very  long,  I  believe,"  said 
Bertie. 

"No — not  long,"  said  the  bishop,  and  tried  again  to  make 
his  way  between  the  back  of  the  sofa  and  a  heavy  rector,  who 
was  staring  over  it  at  the  grimaces  of  the  signora. 

"You  weren't  a  bishop  before,  were  you?" 

Dr.  Proudie  explained  that  this  was  the  first  diocese  he  had 
held. 

"Ah — I  thought  so,"  said  Bertie;  "but  you  are  changed 
about  sometimes,  a'nt  you  ?" 

87 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Translations  are  occasionally  made,"  said  Dr.  Proudie ; 
"but  not  so  frequently  as  in  former  days." 

"They've  cut  them  all  down  to  pretty  nearly  the  same  fig- 
ure, haven't  they  ?"  said  Bertie. 

To  this  the  bishop  could  not  bring  himself  to  make  any 
answer,  but  again  attempted  to  move  the  rector. 

"But  the  work,  I  suppose,  is  different?"  continued  Bertie. 
"Is  there  much  to  do  here,  at  Barchester?"  This  was  said 
exactly  in  the  tone  that  a  young  Admiralty  clerk  might  use 
in  asking  the  same  question  of  a  brother  acolyte  at  the 
Treasury. 

"The  work  of  a  bishop  of  the  Church  of  England,"  said 
Dr.  Proudie,  with  considerable  dignity,  "is  not  easy.  The 
responsibility  which  he  has  to  bear  is  very  great  indeed." 

"Is  it?"  said  Bertie,  opening  wide  his  wonderful  blue  eyes. 
"Well ;  I  never  was  afraid  of  responsibility.  I  once  had 
thoughts  of  being  a  bishop,  myself." 

"Had  thoughts  of  being  a  bishop !"  said  Dr.  Proudie,  much 
amazed. 

"That  is,  a  parson — a  parson  first,  you  know,  and  a  bishop 
afterwards.  If  I  had  once  begun,  I'd  have  stuck  to  it.  But, 
on  the  whole,  I  like  the  Church  of  Rome  the  best." 

The  bishop  could  not  discuss  the  point,  so  he  remained 
silent. 

"Now,  there's  my  father,"  continued  Bertie ;  "he  hasn't 
stuck  to  it.  I  fancy  he  didn't  like  saying  the  same  thing  over 
so  often.     By  the  bye.  Bishop,  have  you  seen  my  father?" 

The  bishop  was  more  amazed  than  ever.  Had  he  seen  his 
father?  "No,"  he  replied;  "he  had  not  yet  had  the  pleasure: 
he  hoped  he  might ;"  and,  as  he  said  so,  he  resolved  to  bear 
heavy  on  that  fat,  immovable  rector,  if  ever  he  had  the 
power  of  doing  so. 

"Pie's  in  the  room  somewhere,"  said  Bertie,  "and  he'll  turn 
up  soon.  By  the  bye,  do  you  know  much  about  the 
Jews?" 

At  last  the  bishop  saw  a  way  out.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
said  he ;  "but  I'm  forced  to  go  round  the  room." 

"Well — I  believe  I'll  follow  in  your  wake,"  said  Bertie. 
"Terribly  hot — isn't  it?"  This  he  addressed  to  the  fat  rector 
with  whom  he  had  brought  himself  into  the  closest  contact. 

88 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

"They've  got  this  sofa  into  the  worst  possible  part  of  the 
room ;  suppose  we  move  it.     Take  care,  MadeHne." 

The  sofa  had  certainly  been  so  placed  that  those  who  were 
behind  it  found  great  difficulty  in  getting  out ; — there  was 
but  a  narrow  gangway,  which  one  person  could  stop.  This 
was  a  bad  arrangement,  and  one  which  Bertie  thought  it 
might  be  well  to  improve. 

"Take  care,  Madeline,"  said  he,  and  turning  to  the  fat 
rector  added,  "Just  help  me  with  a  slight  push." 

The  rector's  weight  was  resting  on  the  sofa,  and  unwit- 
tingly lent  all  its  impetus  to  accelerate  and  increase  the 
motion  which  Bertie  intentionally  originated.  The  sofa 
rushed  from  its  moorings,  and  ran  half  way  into  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Mrs.  Proudie  was  standing  with  Mr,  Slope 
in  front  of  the  signora,  and  had  been  trying  to  be  conde- 
scending and  sociable ;  but  she  was  not  in  the  very  best  of 
tempers;  for  she  found  that,  whenever  she  spoke  to  the  lady, 
the  lady  replied  by  speaking  to  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Slope  was 
a  favourite,  no  doubt ;  but  Mrs.  Proudie  had  no  idea  of  being 
less  thought  of  than  the  chaplain.  She  was  beginning  to 
be  stately,  stiff,  and  offended  when  unfortunately  the  castor 
of  the  sofa  caught  itself  in  her  lace  train,  and  carried  away 
there  is  no  saying  how  much  of  her  garniture.  Gathers  were 
heard  to  go,  stitches  to  crack,  plaits  to  fly  open,  flounces 
were  seen  to  fall,  and  breadths  to  expose  themselves ; — a  long 
ruin  of  rent  lace  disfigured  the  carpet,  and  still  clung  to  the 
vile  wheel  on  which  the  sofa  moved. 

So,  when  a  granite  battery  is  raised,  excellent  to  the  eyes 
of  warfaring  men,  is  its  strength  and  symmetry  admired. 
It  is  the  work  of  years.  Its  neat  embrasures,  its  finished 
parapets,  its  casemated  stories,  show  all  the  skill  of  modern 
science.  But,  anon,  a  small  spark  is  applied  to  the  treacher- 
ous fusee — a  cloud  of  dust  arises  to  the  heavens — and  then 
nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  dirt  and  dust  and  ugly  frag- 
ments. 

We  know  what  was  the  wrath  of  Juno  when  her  beauty 
was  despised.  We  know  too  what  storms  of  passion  even 
celestial  minds  can  yield.  As  Juno  may  have  looked  at  Paris 
on  Mount  Ida,  so  did  Mrs.  Proudie  look  on  Ethelbert  Stan- 
hope when  he  pushed  the  leg  of  the  sofa  into  her  lace  train. 

89 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

"Oh,  you  idiot,  Bertie !"  said  the  signora,  seeing  what  had 
been  done,  and  what  were  to  be  the  consequences. 

"Idiot !"  re-echoed  Mrs.  Proudie,  as  though  the  word  were 
not  half  strong  enough  to  express  the  required  meaning ;  "I'll 

let  him  know ;"  and  then  looking  round  to  learn,  at  a 

glance,  the  worst,  she  saw  that  at  present  it  behoved  her  to 
collect  the  scattered  debris  of  her  dress. 

Bertie,  when  he  saw  what  he  had  done,  rushed  over  the 
sofa,  and  threw  himself  on  one  knee  before  the  offended 
lady.  His  object,  doubtless,  was  to  liberate  the  torn  lace 
from  the  castor;  but  he  looked  as  though  he  were  imploring 
pardon  from  a  goddess. 

"Unhand  it,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  From  what  scrap 
of  dramatic  poetry  she  had  extracted  the  word  cannot  be 
said ;  but  it  must  have  rested  on  her  memory,  and  now 
seemed  opportunely  dignified  for  the  occasion. 

"I'll  fly  to  the  looms  of  the  fairies  to  repair  the  damage, 
if  you'll  only  forgive  me,"  said  Ethelbert,  still  on  his  knees. 

"Unhand  it,  sir !"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  with  redoubled  em- 
phasis and  all  but  furious  wrath.  This  allusion  to  the  fairies 
was  a  direct  mockery,  and  intended  to  turn  her  into  ridicule. 
So  at  least  it  seemed  to  her.  "Unhand  it,  sir !"  she  al- 
most screamed. 

"It's  not  me ;  it's  the  cursed  sofa,"  said  Bertie,  looking 
imploringly  in  her  face,  and  holding  up  both  his  hands  to 
show  that  he  was  not  touching  her  belongings,  but  still  re- 
maining on  his  knees. 

Hereupon  the  signora  laughed ;  not  loud,  indeed,  but  yet 
audibly.  And  as  the  tigress  bereft  of  her  young  will  turn 
with  equal  anger  on  any  within  reach,  so  did  Mrs.  Proudie 
turn  upon  her  female  guest. 

"Madam !"  she  said — and  it  is  beyond  the  power  of  prose 
to  tell  of  the  fire  which  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

The  signora  stared  her  full  in  the  face  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turning  to  her  brother  said,  playfully,  "Bertie,  you 
idiot,  get  up." 

By  this  time  the  bishop,  and  Mr.  Slope,  and  her  three 
daughters  were  around  her,  and  had  collected  together  the 
wide  ruins  of  her  magnificence.  The  girls  fell  into  circular 
rank  behind  their  mother,  and  thus  following  her  and  carry- 

90 


"  They  left  the  reception-rooms  in  a  manner  not 
altogether  devoid  of  dignity  " 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

ing-  out  the  fragments,  they  left  the  reception-rooms  in  a 
manner  not  altogether  devoid  of  dignity.  Mrs.  Proudie  had 
to  retire  and  re-array  herself. 

As  soon  as  the  constellation  had  swept  by,  Ethelbert  rose 
from  his  knees,  and  turning  with  mock  anger  to  the  fat  rec- 
tor, said :  "After  all  it  was  your  doing,  sir — not  mine.  But 
perhaps  you  are  waiting  for  preferment,  and  so  I  bore  it." 

Whereupon  there  was  a  laugh  against  the  fat  rector,  in 
which  both  the  bishop  and  the  chaplain  joined;  and  thus 
things  got  themselves  again  into  order. 

"Oh !  my  lord,  I  am  so  sorry  for  this  accident,"  said  the 
signora,  putting  out  her  hand  so  as  to  force  the  bishop  to 
take  it.  "My  brother  is  so  thoughtless.  Pray  sit  down,  and 
let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance. 
Though  I  am  so  poor  a  creature  as  to  want  a  sofa,  I  am  not 
so  selfish  as  to  require  it  all."  Madeline  could  always  dis- 
pose herself  so  as  to  make  room  for  a  gentleman,  though, 
as  she  declared,  the  crinoline  of  her  lady  friends  was  much 
too  bulky  to  be  so  accommodated. 

"It  was  solely  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  that  I  have 
had  myself  dragged  here,"  she  continued.  "Of  course,  with 
your  occupation,  one  cannot  even  hope  that  you  should  have 
time  to  come  to  us,  that  is,  in  the  way  of  calling.  And  at 
your  English  dinner-parties  all  is  so  dull  and  so  stately.  Do 
you  know,  my  lord,  that  in  coming  to  England  my  only  con- 
solation has  been  the  thought  that  I  should  know  you ;"  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  the  look  of  a  she-devil. 

The  bishop,  however,  thought  that  she  looked  very  like 
an  angel,  and,  accepting  the  proffered  seat,  sat  down  beside 
her.  He  uttered  some  platitude  as  to  his  deep  obligation  for 
the  trouble  she  had  taken,  and  wondered  more  and  more 
who  she  was. 

"Of  course  you  don't  know  my  sad  story?"  she  continued. 

The  bishop  didn't  know  a  word  of  it.  He  knew,  how- 
ever, or  thought  he  knew,  that  she  couldn't  walk  into  a 
room  like  other  people,  and  so  made  the  most  of  that.  He 
put  on  a  look  of  ineffable  distress,  and  said  that  he  was 
aware  how  God  had  afflicted  her. 

The  signora  just  touched  the  corner  of  her  eyes  with  the 
most  lovely  of  pocket-handkerchiefs.    Yes,  she  said — she  had 

91 


RARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

been  sorely  tried — tried,  she  thought,  beyond  the  common 
endurance  of  humanity;  but  while  her  child  was  left  to  her, 
everything  was  left.  "Oh !  my  lord,"  she  exclaimed,  "you 
must  see  that  infant — the  last  bud  of  a  wondrous  tree :  you 
must  let  a  mother  hope  that  you  will  lay  your  holy  hands 
on  her  innocent  head,  and  consecrate  her  for  female  virtues. 
May  I  hope  it?"  said  she,  looking  into  the  bishop's  eye,  and 
touching  the  bishop's  arm  with  her  hand. 

The  bishop  was  but  a  man,  and  said  she  might.  After 
all,  what  was  it  but  a  request  that  he  would  confirm  her 
daughter? — a  request,  indeed,  very  unnecessary  to  make,  as 
he  should  do  so  as  a  matter  of  course,  if  the  young  lady  came 
forward  in  the  usual  way. 

"The  blood  of  Tiberius,"  said  the  signora,  in  all  but  a 
whisper;  "the  blood  of  Tiberius  flows  in  her  veins.  She  is 
the  last  of  the  Neros !" 

The  bishop  had  heard  of  the  last  of  the  Visigoths,  and 
had  floating  in  his  brain  some  indistinct  idea  of  the  last  of 
the  Mohicans,  but  to  have  the  last  of  the  Neros  thus 
brought  before  him  for  a  blessing  was  very  staggering.  Still 
he  liked  the  lady :  she  had  a  proper  way  of  thinking,  and 
talked  with  more  propriety  than  her  brother.  But  who  were 
they?  It  was  now  quite  clear  that  that  blue  madman  with 
the  silky  beard  was  not  a  Prince  Vicinironi.  The  lady  was 
married,  and  was  of  course  one  of  the  Vicinironis  by  right 
of  the  husband.     So  the  bishop  went  on  learning. 

"When  will  you  see  her?"  said  the  signora  with  a  start. 

"See  whom?"  said  the  bishop. 

"My  child,"  said  the  mother. 

"What  is  the  young  lady's  age?"  asked  the  bishop. 

"She  is  just  seven,"  said  the  signora. 

"Oh,"  said  the  bishop,  shaking  his  head;  "she  is  much 
too  young — very  much  too  young." 

"But  in  sunny  Italy,  you  know,  we  do  not  count  by  years," 
and  the  signora  gave  the  bishop  one  of  her  very  sweetest 
smiles. 

"But  indeed,  she  is  a  great  deal  too  young,"  persisted  the 
bishop ;  "we  never  confirm  before " 

"But  you  might  speak  to  her;  you  might  let  her  hear 
from  your  consecrated  lips,  that  she  is  not  a  castaway  be- 

92 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

cause  she  is  a  Roman ;  that  she  may  be  a  Nero  and  yet  a 
Christian ;  that  she  may  owe  her  black  locks  and  dark  cheeks 
to  the  blood  of  the  pagan  Caesars,  and  yet  herself  be  a  child 
of  gr^lce ;  you  will  tell  her  this,  won't  you,  my  friend?" 

The  friend  said  he  would,  and  asked  if  the  child  could 
say  her  catechism. 

"No,"  said  the  signora,  'T  would  not  allow  her  to  learn 
lessons  such  as  those  in  a  land  ridden  over  by  priests,  and 
polluted  by  the  idolatry  of  Rome.  It  is  here,  here  in  Bar- 
chester,  that  she  must  first  be  taught  to  lisp  those  holy  words. 
Oh,  that  you  could  be  her  instructor!" 

Now,  Dr.  Proudie  certainly  liked  the  lady,  but  seeing  that 
he  was  a  bishop,  it  was  not  probable  that  he  was  going  to 
instruct  a  little  girl  in  the  first  rudiments  of  her  catechism; 
so  he  said  he'd  send  a  teacher. 

"But  you'll  see  her,  yourself,  my  lord?" 

The  bishop  said  he  would,  but  where  should  he  call  ? 

"At  papa's  house,"  said  the  signora,  with  an  air  of  some 
little  surprise  at  the  question. 

The  bishop  act'ually  wanted  the  courage  to  ask  her  w^ho 
was  her  papa ;  so  he  was  forced  at  last  to  leave  her  without 
fathoming  the  mystery.  Mrs.  Proudie,  in  her  second  best, 
had  now  returned  to  the  rooms,  and  her  husband  thought  it 
as  well  that  he  should  not  remain  in  too  close  conversation 
with  the  lady  whom  his  wife  appeared  to  hold  in  such  slight 
esteem.     Presently  he  came  across  his  youngest  daughter. 

"Netta,"  said  he,  "do  you  know  who  is  the  father  of  that 
Signora  Vicinironi  ?" 

"It  isn't  Vicinironi,  papa,"  said  Netta;  "but  Vesey  Neroni, 
and  she's  Dr.  Stanhope's  daughter.  But  I  must  go  and  do 
the  civil  to  Griselda  Grantly :  I  declare  nobody  has  spoken 
a  word  to  the  poor  girl  this  evening." 

Dr.  Stanhope !  Dr.  Vesey  Stanhope !  Dr.  Vesey  Stan- 
hope's daughter,  of  whose  marriage  with  a  dissolute  Italian 
scamp  he  now  remembered  to  have  heard  something!  And 
that  impertinent  blue  cub  who  had  examined  him  as  to  his 
episcopal  bearings  was  old  Stanhope's  son,  and  the  lady  who 
had  entreated  him  to  come  and  teach  her  child  the  catechism 
was  old  Stanhope's  daughter !  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  own 
prebendaries !     As  these  things  flashed  across  his  mind,  he 

93 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

was  nearly  as  angry  as  his  wife  had  been.  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  but  own  that  the  mother  of  the  last  of  the  Neros 
was  an  agreeable  woman. 

Dr.  Proudie  tripped  out  into  the  adjoining  room,  in  which 
were  congregated  a  crowd  of  Grantlyite  clergymen,  among 
whom  the  archdeacon  was  standing  pre-eminent,  while  the 
old  dean  was  sitting  nearly  buried  in  a  huge  arm-chair  by 
the  fire-place.  The  bishop  was  very  anxious  to  be  gracious, 
and,  if  possible,  to  diminish  the  bitterness  which  his  chap- 
lain had  occasioned.  Let  Mr,  Slope  do  the  for  titer  in  re,  he 
himself  would  pour  in  the  snavitcr  in  modo. 

"Pray  don't  stir,  Mr.  Dean,  pray  don't  stir,"  he  said,  as 
the  old  man  essayed  to  get  up;  "I  take  it  as  a  great  kind- 
ness, your  coming  to  such  an  omnium  gatherum  as  this.  But 
we  have  hardly  got  settled  yet,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  has  not 
been  able  to  see  her  friends  as  she  would  wish  to  do.  Well, 
Mr.  Archdeacon,  after  all,  we  have  not  been  so  hard  upon 
you  at  Oxford." 

"No,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "you've  only  drawn  our  teeth 
and  cut  out  our  tongues ;  you've  allowed  us  still  to  breathe 
and  swallow," 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !"  laughed  the  bishop ;  "it's  not  quite  so  easy 
to  cut  out  the  tongue  of  an  Oxford  magnate, — and  as  for 
teeth, — ha,  ha,  ha !  Why,  in  the  way  we've  left  the  matter, 
it's  very  odd  if  the  heads  of  colleges  don't  have  their  own 
way  quite  as  fully  as  when  the  hebdomadal  board  was  in  all 
its  glory ;  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Dean  ?" 

"An  old  man,  my  lord,  never  likes  changes,"  said  the  dean. 

"You  must  have  been  sad  bunglers  if  it  is  so,"  said  the 
archdeacon ;  "and  indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think  you  have 
bungled  it.  At  any  rate,  you  must  own  this ;  you  have  not 
done  the  half  what  you  boasted  you  would  do." 

"Now,  as  regards  your  system  of  professors "  began 

the  chancellor  slowly.  He  was  never  destined  to  get  beyond 
such  beginning, 

"Talking  of  professors,"  said  a  soft  clear  voice,  close  be- 
hind the  chancellor's  elbow ;  "how  much  you  Englishmen 
might  learn  from  Germany ;  only  you  are  all  too  proud." 

The  bishop  looking  round,  perceived  that  that  abominable 
young  Stanhope  had  pursued  him.    The  dean  stared  at  him, 

94 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

as  though  he  were  some  unearthly  apparition ;  so  also  did 
two  or  three  prebendaries  and  minor  canons.  The  arch- 
deacon laughed. 

"The  German  professors  are  men  of  learning,"  said  Mr. 
Harding,  "but " 

"German  professors !"  groaned  out  the  chancellor,  as 
though  his  nervous  system  had  received  a  shock  which  noth- 
ing but  a  week  of  Oxford  air  could  cure. 
.  "Yes,"  continued  Ethelbert;  not  at  all  understanding  why 
a  German  professor  should  be  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  an 
Oxford  don.  "Not  but  what  the  name  is  best  earned  at 
Oxford.  In  Germany  the  professors  do  teach ;  at  Oxford, 
I  believe,  they  only  profess  to  do  so,  and  sometimes  not  even 
that.  You'll  have  those  universities  of  yours  about  your  ears 
soon,  if  you  don't  consent  to  take  a  lesson  from  Germany." 

There  was  no  answering  this.  Dignified  clergymen  of 
sixty  years  of  age  could  not  condescend  to  discuss  such  a 
matter  with  a  young  man  with  such  clothes  and  such  a  beard. 

"Have  you  got  good  water  out  at  Plumstead,  Mr.  Arch- 
deacon?" said  the  bishop  by  way  of  changing  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Pretty  good,"  said  Dr.  Grantly. 

"But  by  no  means  so  good  as  his  wine,  my  lord,"  said  a 
witty  minor  canon. 

"Nor  so  generally  used,"  said  another;  "that  is,  for  inward 
application." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha !"  laughed  the  bishop,  "a  good  cellar  of  wine 
is  a  very  comfortable  thing  in  a  house." 

"Your  German  professors,  sir,  prefer  beer,  I  believe,"  said 
the  sarcastic  little  meagre  prebendary. 

"They  don't  think  much  of  either,"  said  Ethelbert;  "and 
that  perhaps  accounts  for  their  superiority.  Now  the  Jewish 
professor " 

The  insult  was  becoming  too  deep  for  the  spirit  of  Oxford 
to  endure,  so  the  archdeacon  walked  off  one  way  and  the 
chancellor  another,  followed  by  their  disciples,  and  the  bishop 
and  the  young  reformer  were  left  together  on  the  hearth- 
rug. 

"I  was  a  Jew  once  myself,"  began  Bertie. 

The  bishop  was  determined  not  to  stand  another  examina- 

95 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

tion,  or  be  led  on  any  terms  into  Palestine ;  so  he  again  re- 
membered that  he  had  to  do  something  very  particular,  and 
left  young  Stanhope  with  the  dean.  The  dean  did  not  get 
the  worst  of  it,  for  Ethelbert  gave  him  a  true  account  of 
his  remarkable  doings  in  the  Holy  Land. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the  bishop,  overtaking  the  ci- 
devant  warden ;  "I  wanted  to  say  one  word  about  the  hos- 
pital.   You  know,  of  course,  that  it  is  to  be  filled  up." 

Mr.  Harding's  heart  beat  a  little,  and  he  said  that  he  had 
heard  so. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  bishop ;  "there  can  be  only  one 
man  whom  I  could  wish  to  see  in  that  situation.  I  don't 
know  what  your  own  views  may  be,  Mr.  Harding " 

'They  are  very  simply  told,  my  lord,"  said  the  other;  "to 
take  the  place  if  it  be  offered  me,  and  to  put  up  with  the 
want  of  it  should  another  man  get  it." 

The  bishop  professed  himself  delighted  to  hear  it ;  Mr. 
Harding  might  be  quite  sure  that  no  other  man  would  get 
it.  There  were  some  few  circumstances  which  would  in  a 
slight  degree  change  the  nature  of  the  duties.  Mr.  Harding 
was  probably  aware  of  this,  and  would,  perhaps,  not  object 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  Mr.  Slope.  It  was  a  subject  to 
which  Mr.  Slope  had  given  a  good  deal  of  attention. 

Mr.  Harding  felt,  he  knew  not  why,  oppressed  and  an- 
noyed. What  could  Mr.  Slope  do  to  him?  He  knew  that 
there  were  to  be  changes.  The  nature  of  them  must  be  com- 
municated to  the  warden  through  somebody,  and  through 
whom  so  naturally  as  the  bishop's  chaplain?  'Twas  thus 
he  tried  to  argue  himself  back  to  an  easy  mind,  but  in  vain. 

Mr.  Slope  in  the  mean  time  had  taken  the  seat  which  the 
bishop  had  vacated  on  the  signora's  sofa,  and  remained  with 
that  lady  till  it  was  time  to  marshal  the  folk  to  supper.  Not 
with  contented  eyes  had  Mrs.  Proudie  seen  this.  Had  not 
this  woman  laughed  at  her  distress,  and  had  not  Mr.  Slope 
heard  it?  Was  she  not  an  intriguing  Italian  woman,  half 
wife  and  half  not,  full  of  affectation,  airs,  and  imprudence? 
Was  she  not  horribly  bedizened  with  velvet  and  pearls,  with 
velvet  and  pearls,  too,  which  had  not  been  torn  off  her  back? 
Above  all,  did  she  not  pretend  to  be  more  beautiful  than  her 
neighbours?     To  say  that  Mrs.  Proudie  was  jealous  would 

96 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

give  a  wrong  idea  of  her  feelings.  She  had  not  the  slightest 
desire  that  Mr.  Slope  should  be  in  love  with  herself.  But 
she  desired  the  incense  of  Mr.  Slope's  spiritual  and  temporal 
services,  and  did  not  choose  that  they  should  be  turned  out 
of  their  course  to  such  an  object  as  Signora  Neroni.  She 
considered  also  that  Mr.  Slope  ought  in  duty  to  hate  the 
signora;  and  it  appeared  from  his  manner  that  he  was  very 
far  from  hating  her. 

"Come,  Mr.  Slope,"  she  said,  sweeping  by,  and  looking  all 
'that  she  felt ;  "can't  you  make  yourself  useful  ?  Do  pray 
take  Mrs.  Grantly  down  to  supper." 

Mrs.  Grantly  heard  and  escaped.  The  words  were  hardly 
out  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  mouth,  before  the  intended  victim  had 
stuck  her  hand  through  the  arm  of  one  of  her  husband's 
curates,  and  saved  herself.  What  would  the  archdeacon  have 
said  had  he  seen  her  walking  down  stairs  with  Mr.  Slope? 

Mr.  Slope  heard  also,  but  was  by  no  means  so  obedient 
as  was  expected.  Indeed,  the  period  of  Mr.  Slope's  obedi- 
ence to  Mrs.  P'roudie  was  drawing  to  a  close.  He  did  not 
wish  yet  to  break  with  her,  nor  to  break  with  her  at  all,  if 
it  could  be  avoided.  But  he  intended  to  be  master  in  that 
palace,  and  as  she  had  made  the  same  resolution  it  was  not 
improbable  that  they  might  come  to  blows. 

Before  leaving  the  signora  he  arranged  a  little  table  be- 
fore her,  and  begged  to  know  what  he  should  bring  her.  She 
was  quite  indififerent,  she  said — nothing — anything.  It  was 
now  she  felt  the  misery  of  her  position,  now  that  she  must 
be  left  alone.  Well,  a  little  chicken,  some  ham,  and  a 
glass  of  champagne. 

Mr.  Slope  had  to  explain,  not  without  blushing  for  his 
patron,  that  there  was  no  champagne. 

Sherry  would  do  just  as  well.  And  then  Mr.  Slope  de- 
scended with  the  learned  Miss  Trefoil  on  his  arm.  Could 
she  tell  him,  he  asked,  whether  the  ferns  of  Barsetshire  were 
equal  to  those  of  Cumberland  ?  His  strongest  worldly  pas- 
sion was  for  ferns — and  before  she  could  answer  him  he 
left  her  wedged  between  the  door  and  the  sideboard.  It 
was  fifty  minutes  before  she  escaped,  and  even  then  unfed. 

"You  are  not  leaving  us,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  the  watchful 
lady  of  the  house,  seeing  her  slave  escaping  towards   the 

'  97 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

door,  with  stores  of  provisions  held  high  above  the  heads  of 
the  guests. 

Mr.  Slope  explained  that  the  Signora  Neroni  w^as  in  want 
of  her  supper. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Slope,  let  her  brother  take  it  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie,  quite  out  loud.  "It  is  out  of  the  question  that  you 
should  be  so  employed.  Pray,  Mr.  Slope,  oblige  me;  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Stanhope  will  wait  upon  his  sister." 

Ethelbert  was  most  agreeably  occupied  in  the  furthest 
corner  of  the  room,  making  himself  both  useful  and  agree- 
able to  Mrs.  Proudie's  youngest  daughter. 

"I  couldn't  get  out,  madam,  if  Madeline  were  starving  for 
her' supper,"  said  he;  "Fm  physically  fixed,  unless  I  could  fly." 

The  lady's  anger  was  increased  by  seeing  that  her  daugh- 
ter also  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy ;  and  when  she  saw, 
that  in  spite  of  her  remonstrances,  in  the  teeth  of  her  posi- 
tive orders,  Mr.  Slope  went  off  to  the  drawing-room,  the 
cup  of  her  indignation  ran  over,  and  she  could  not  restrain 
herself.  "Such  manners  I  never  saw,"  she  said,  muttering. 
"I  cannot  and  will  not  permit  it ;"  and  then,  after  fussing 
and  fuming  for  a  few  minutes,  she  pushed  her  way  through 
the  crowd,  and  followed  Mr.  Slope. 

When  she  reached  the  room  above,  she  found  it  absolutely 
deserted  except  for  the  guilty  pair.  The  signora  was  sitting 
very  comfortably  up  to  her  supper,  and  Mr.  Slope  was  lean- 
ing over  her  and  administering  to  her  wants.  They  had 
been  discussing  the  merits  of  Sabbath-day  schools,  and  the 
lady  had  suggested  that  as  she  could  not  possibly  go  to  the 
children,  she  might  be  indulged  in  the  wish  of  her  heart  by 
having  the  children  brought  to  her. 

"And  when  shall  it  be,  Mr.  Slope?"  said  she. 

Mr.  Slope  was  saved  the  necessity  of  committing  himself 
to  a  promise  by  the  entry  of  Mrs.  Proudie.  She  swept  close 
up  to  the  sofa  so  as  to  confront  the  guilty  pair,  stared  full 
at  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  as  she  passed  on  to  the 
next  room,  "Mr.  Slope,  his  lordship  is  especially  desirous 
of  your  attendance  below ;  you  will  greatly  oblige  me  if  you 
will  join  him."    And  so  she  stalked  on. 

Mr.  Slope  muttered  something  in  reply,  and  prepared  to 
go  down  stairs.     As  for  the  bishop's  wanting  him,  he  knew 

98 


MRS.    PROUDIE'S    RECEPTION— CONCLUDED. 

his  lady  patroness  well  enough  to  take  that  assertion  at  what 
it  was  worth ;  but  he  did  not  wish  to  make  himself  the  hero 
of  a  scene,  or  to  become  conspicuous  for  more  gallantry 
than  the  occasion  required. 

"Is  she  always  like  this?"  said  the  signora. 

"Yes — always — madam,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  returning; 
"always  the  same — always  equally  adverse  to  impropriety  of 
conduct  of  every  description ;"  and  she  stalked  back  through 
the  room  again,  following  Mr.  Slope  out  of  the  door. 

The  signora  couldn't  follow  her,  or  she  certainly  would 
have  done  so.  But  she  laughed  loud,  and  sent  the  sound 
of  it  ringing  through  the  lobby  and  down  the  stairs  after 
Mrs.  Proudie's  feet.  Had  she  been  as  active  as  Grimaldi, 
she  could  probably  have  taken  no  better  revenge. 

"Mr.  Slope,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  catching  the  delinquent 
at  the  door,  "I  am  surprised  that  you  should  leave  my  com- 
pany to  attend  on  such  a  painted  Jezebel  as  that." 

"But  she's  lame,  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  cannot  move.  Some- 
body must  have  waited  upon  her." 

"Lame,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "I'd  lame  her  if  she  belonged 
to  me.  What  business  had  she  here  at  all  ? — such  imperti- 
nence— such  affectation." 

In  the  hall  and  adjacent  rooms  all  manner  of  cloaking  and 
shawling  was  going  on,  and  the  Barchester  folk  were  get- 
ting themselves  gone.  Mrs.  PrOudie  did  her  best  to  smirk 
at  each  and  every  one,  as  they  made  their  adieux,  but  she 
was  hardly  successful.  Her  temper  had  been  tried  fearfully. 
By  slow  degrees,  the  guests  went. 

"Send  back  the  carriage  quick,"  said  Ethelbert,  as  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Stanhope  took  their  departure. 

The  younger  Stanhopes  were  left  to  the  very  last^  and  an 
uncomfortable  party  they  made  with  the  bishop's  family. 
They  all  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  then  the  bishop  ob- 
serving that  "the  lady"  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  they 
followed  him  up.  Mrs.  Proudie  kept  Mr.  Slope  and  her 
daughters  in  close  conversation,  resolving  that  he  should  not 
be  indulged,  nor  they  polluted.  The  bishop,  in  mortal  dread 
of  Bertie  and  the  Jews,  tried  to  converse  with  Charlotte 
Stanhope  about  the  climate  of  Italy.  Bertie  and  the  signora 
had  no  resource  but  in  each  other. 

99 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

"Did  you  get  your  supper,  at  last,  Madeline?"  said  the 
impudent  or  else  mischievous  young  man. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Madeline;  "Mr.  Slope  was  so  very  kind 
as  to  bring  it  me.  I  fear,  however,  he  put  himself  to  more 
inconvenience  than  I  wished." 

Mrs.  Proudie  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing.  The  mean- 
ing of  her  look  might  have  been  thus  translated :  "If  ever 
you  find  yourself  within  these  walls  again,  I'll  give  you  leave 
to  be  as  impudent,  and  affected,  and  as  mischievous  as  you 
please." 

At  last  the  carriage  returned  with  the  three  Italian  serv- 
ants, and  La  Signora  Madeline  Vesey  Neroni  was  carried 
out,  as  she  had  been  carried  in. 

The  lady  of  the  palace  retired  to  her  chamber  by  no  means 
contented  with  the  result  of  her  first  grand  party  at  Bar- 
chester. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


SLOPE    VERSUS    HARDING. 


TWO  or  three  days  after  the  party,  Mr.  Harding  re- 
ceived a  note  begging  him  to  call  on  Mr.  Slope,  at 
the  palace,  at  an  early  hour  the  following  morning.  There 
was  nothing  uncivil  in  the  communication,  and  yet  the  tone 
of  it  was  thoroughly  displeasing.     It  was  as  follows : 

"My  dear  Mr.  Harding, — Will  you  favour  me  by  calling 
on  me  at  the  palace  to-morrow  morning  at  9.30  a.m.  The 
bishop  wishes  me  to  speak  to  you  touching  the  hospital.  I 
hope  you  will  excuse  my  naming  so  early  an  hour.  I  do  so 
as  my  time  is  greatly  occupied.  If,  however,  it  is  positively 
inconvenient  to  you,  I  will  change  it  to  10.  You  will,  per- 
haps, be  kind  enough  to  let  me  have  a  note  in  reply. 
"Believe  me  to  be, 

"My  dear  Mr.  Harding, 
"Your  assured  friend, 

"Obh.  Slope. 

"The  Palace,  Monday  morning, 
"20th  August,  185 — ." 

100 


SLOPE   VERSUS    HARDING. 

Mr.  Harding  neither  could  nor  would  believe  anything  of 
the  sort;  and  he  thought,  moreover,  that  Mr.  Slope  was 
rather  impertinent  to  call  himself  by  such  a  name.  His  as- 
sured friend,  indeed !  How  many  assured  friends  generally 
fall  to  the  lot  of  a  man  in  this  world  ?  And  by  what  process 
are  they  made?  and  how  much  of  such  process  had 
taken  place  as  yet  between  ]\Ir.  Harding  and  Mr.  Slope? 
Mr.  Harding  could  not  help  asking  himself  these  questions 
as  he  read  and  re-read  the  note  before  him.  He  answered  it, 
however,  as  follows : 

"Dear  Sir, — I  will  call  at  the  palace  to-morrow  at  9.30  a.m. 
as  you  desire. 

"Truly  yours, 

"S.  Harding. 

"High  Street,  Barchester,  Monday." 

And  on  the  following  morning,  punctually  at  half-past  nine, 
he  knocked  at  the  palace  door,  and  asked  for  Air.  Slope. 

The  bishop  had  one  small  room  allotted  to  him  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  Mr.  Slope  had  another.  Into  this  latter 
Mr.  Harding  was  shown,  and  asked  to  sit  down.  Mr.  Slope 
was  not  yet  there.  The  ex-warden  stood  up  at  the  window 
looking  into  the  garden,  and  could  not  help  thinking  how 
very  short  a  time  had  passed  since  the  whole  of  that  house 
had  been  open  to  him,  as  though  he  had  been  a  child  of  the 
family,  born  and  bred  in  it.  He  remembered  how  the  old 
servants  used  to  smile  as  they  opened  the  door  to  him ;  how 
the  familiar  butler  would  say,  when  he  had  been  absent  a  few 
hours  longer  than  usual,  "A  sight  of  you,  Mr.  Harding,  is 
good  for  sore  eyes ;"  how  the  fussy  housekeeper  would  swear 
that  he  couldn't  have  dined,  or  couldn't  have  breakfasted,  or 
couldn't  have  lunched.  And  then,  above  all.  he  remembered 
the  pleasant  gleam  of  inward  satisfaction  which  always 
spread  itself  over  the  old  bishop's  face,  whenever  his  friend 
entered  his  room. 

A  tear  came  into  each  eye  as  he  reflected  that  all  this  was 
gone.  What  use  would  the  hospital  be  to  him  now  ?  He  was 
alone  in  the  world,  and  getting  old ;  he  would  soon,  very  soon 
have  to  go,  and  leave  it  all,  as  his  dear  old  friend  had  gone; — 

lOI 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

go,  and  leave  the  hospital,  and  his  accustomed  place  in  the 
cathedral,  and  his  haunts  and  pleasures,  to  younger  and  per- 
haps wiser  men.  That  chanting  of  his ! — perhaps,  in  truth, 
the  time  for  it  had  gone  by.  He  felt  as  though  the  world 
were  sinking  from  his  feet ;  as  though  this,  this  was  the  time 
for  him  to  turn  with  confidence  to  those  hopes  which,  he 
had  preached  with  confidence  to  others.  "What,"  said  he 
to  himself,  "can  a  man's  religion  be  worth,  if  it  does  not 
support  him  against  the  natural  melancholy  of  declining 
years  ?"  And,  as  he  looked  out  through  his  dimmed  eyes  into 
the  bright  parterres  of  the  bishop's  garden,  he  felt  that  he 
had  the  support  which  he  wanted. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  like  to  be  thus  kept  waiting.  If 
Mr.  Slope  did  not  really  wish  to  see  him  at  half-past  nine 
o'clock,  why  force  him  to  come  away  from  his  lodgings  with 
his  breakfast  in  his  throat?  To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  policy  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Slope  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  Mr.  Harding  should  either  accept  the  hospital  with 
abject  submission,  or  else  refuse  it  altogether;  and  had 
calculated  that  he  would  probably  be  more  quick  to  do  the 
latter,  if  he  could  be  got  to  enter  upon  the  subject  in  an  ill- 
humour.  Perhaps  Mr.  Slope  was  not  altogether  wrong  in 
his  calculation. 

It  was  nearly  ten  when  Mr.  Slope  hurried  into  the  room, 
and,  muttering  something  about  the  bishop  and  diocesan 
duties,  shook  Mr.  Harding's  hand  ruthlessly,  and  begged  him 
to  be  seated. 

Now  the  air  of  superiority  which  this  man  assumed,  did 
go  against  the  grain  of  Mr.  Harding;  and  yet  he  did  not 
know  how  to  resent  it.  The  whole  tendency  of  his  mind  and 
disposition  was  opposed  to  any  contra-assumption  of  gran- 
deur on  his  own  part,  and  he  hadn't  the  worldly  spirit  or 
quickness  necessary  to  put  down  insolent  pretensions  by 
downright  and  open  rebuke,  as  the  archdeacon  would  have 
done.  There  was  nothing  for  Mr.  Harding  but  to  submit, 
and  he  accordingly  did  so. 

"About  the  hospital,  Mr.  Harding?"  began  Mr.  Slope, 
speaking  of  it  as  the  head  of  a  college  at  Cambridge  might 
speak  of  some  sizarship  which  had  to  be  disposed  of. 

Mr.  Harding  crossed  one  leg  over  another,  and  then  one 

1 02 


SLOPE   VERSUS    HARDING. 

hand  over  the  other  on  the  top  of  them,  and  looked  Mr.  Slope 
in  the  face;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"It's  to  be  filled  up  again,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Harding 
said  that  he  had  understood  so. 

"Of  course,  you  know,  the  income  will  be  very  much  re- 
duced," continued  Mr.  Slope.  "The  bishop  wished  to  be 
liberal,  and  he  therefore  told  the  government  that  he  thought 
it  ought  to  be  put  at  not  less  than  450/.  I  think  on  the  whole 
the  bishop  was  right;  for  though  the  services  required  will 
not  be  of  a  very  onerous  nature,  they  will  be  more  so  than 
they  were  before.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  well  that  the  clergy 
immediately  attached  to  the  cathedral  town  should  be  made 
as  comfortable  as  the  extent  of  the  ecclesiastical  means  at 
our  disposal  will  allow.  Those  are  the  bishop's  ideas,  and  I 
must  say  mine  also." 

Mr.  Harding  sat  rubbing  one  hand  on  the  other,  but  said 
not  a  word. 

"So  much  for  the  income,  Mr.  Harding.  The  house  will, 
of  course,  remain  to  the  warden,  as  before.  It  should,  how- 
ever, I  think,  be  stipulated  that  he  should  paint  inside  every 
seven  years,  and  outside  every  three  years,  and  be  subject 
to  dilapidations,  in  the  event  of  vacating,  either  by  death 
or  otherwise.  But  this  is  a  matter  on  which  the  bishop  must 
yet  be  consulted." 

Mr.  Harding  still  rubbed  his  hands,  and  still  sat  silent, 
gazing  up  into  Mr.  Slope's  unprepossessing  face. 

"Then,  as  to  the  duties,"  continued  he,  "I  believe,  if  I  am 
rightfully  informed,  there  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been 
any  duties  hitherto,"  and  he  gave  a  sort  of  half  laugh,  as 
though  to  pass  off  the  accusation  in  the  guise  of  a  pleasantry. 

Mr.  Harding  thought  of  the  happy,  easy  years  he  had 
passed  in  his  old  home ;  of  the  worn-out,  aged  men  whom  he 
had  succoured ;  of  his  good  intentions ;  and  of  his  work, 
which  had  certainly  been  of  the  lightest.  He  thought  of 
these  things,  doubtless  for  a  moment  whether  he  did  or  did 
not  deserve  the  sarcasm.  He  gave  his  enemy  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt,  and  did  not  rebuke  him.  He  merely  observed, 
very  tranquilly,  and  perhaps  with  too  much  humility,  that 
the  duties  of  the  situation,  such  as  they  were,  had,  he  be- 
lieved, been  done  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  late  bishop. 

103 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr,  Slope  again  smiled,  and  this  time  the  smile  was  in- 
tended to  operate  against  the  memory  of  the  late  bishop, 
rather  than  against  the  energy  of  the  ex-warden ;  and  so  it 
was  understood  by  Mr.  Harding.  The  colour  rose  to  his 
cheeks,  and  he  began  to  feel  very  angry. 

"You  must  be  aware,  Mr.  Harding,  that  things  are  a  good 
deal  changed  in  Barchester,"  said  Mr.  Slope. 

Mr.  Harding  said  that  he  was  aware  of  it.  "And  not  only 
in  Barchester,  Mr.  Harding,  but  in  the  world  at  large.  It 
is  not  only  in  Barchester  that  a  new  man  is  carrying  out  new 
measures  and  casting  away  the  useless  rubbish  of  past  cen- 
turies. The  same  thing  is  going  on  throughout  the  country. 
Work  is  now  required  from  every  man  who  receives  wages; 
and  they  who  have  to  superintend  the  doing  of  work,  and  the 
paying  of  wages,  are  bound  to  see  that  this  rule  is  carried 
out.  New  men,  Mr.  Harding,  are  now  needed,  and  are  now 
forthcoming  in  the  church,  as  well  as  in  other  professions.'' 
All  this  was  wormwood  to  our  old  friend.  He  had  never 
rated  very  high  his  own  abilities  or  activity ;  but  all  the  feel- 
ings of  his  heart  were  with  the  old  clergy ;  and  any  antipa- 
thies of  which  his  heart  was  susceptible,  were  directed 
against  those  new,  busy,  uncharitable,  self -lauding  men,  of 
whom  Mr.  Slope  was  so  good  an  example. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  "the  bishop  will  prefer  a  new  man 
at  the  hospital  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "The  bishop  is  very 
anxious  that  you  should  accept  the  appointment ;  but  he  wishes 
you  should  understand  beforehand  what  will  be  the  required 
duties.  In  the  first  place,  a  Sabbath-day  school  will  be  at- 
tached to  the  hospital." 

"What!  for  the  old  men?"  asked  Mr.  Harding. 
"No,  Mr.  Harding,  not  for  the  old  men,  but  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  children  of  such  of  the  poor  of  Barchester  as  it 
may  suit.  The  bishop  will  expect  that  you  shall  attend  this 
school,  and  the  teachers  shall  be  under  your  inspection  and 
care." 

Mr.  Harding  slipped  his  topmost  hand  off  the  other,  and 
began  to  rub  the  calf  of  the  leg  which  was  supported. 

"As  to  the  old  men,"  continued  Mr.   Slope,  "and  the  old 
women  who  are  to  form  a  part  of  the  hospital,  the  bishop 

104 


SLOPE   VERSUS    HARDING. 

is  desirous  that  you  shall  have  morning  and  evening  service 
on  the  premises  every  Sabbath,  and  one  week-day  service; 
that  you  shall  preach  to  them  once  at  least  on  Sundays ; 
and  that  the  whole  hospital  be  always  collected  for  morn- 
ing and  evening  prayer.  The  bishop  thinks  that  this  will 
render  it  unnecessary  that  any  separate  seats  in  the  cathe- 
dral should  be  reserved  for  the  hospital  inmates." 

Mr.  Slope  paused,  but  Mr.  Harding  still  said  nothing. 

"Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  seats  for  the  women; 
and,  on  the  whole,  Mr.  Harding,  I  may  as  well  say  at 
once,  that  for  people  of  that  class  the  cathedral  service  does 
not  appear  to  me  the  most  useful, — even  if  it  be  so  for  any 
class  of  people." 

"We  will  not  discuss  that,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. 

"I  am  not  desirous  of  doing  so ;  at  least,  not  at  the  present 
moment.  I  hope,  however,  you  fully  understood  the  bishop's 
wishes  about  the  new  establishment  of  the  hospital ;  and 
if,  as  I  do  not  doubt,  I  shall  receive  from  you  an  assurance 
that  you  accord  with  his  lordship's  views,  it  will  give  me 
very  great  pleasure  to  be  the  bearer  from  his  lordship  to 
you  of  the  presentation  to  the  appointment." 

"But  if  I  disagree  with  his  lordship's  views?"  asked  Mr. 
Harding. 

"But  I  hope  you  do  not,"  said  Mr.  Slope. 

"But  if  I  do?"  again  asked  the  other. 

"If  such  unfortunately  should  be  the  case,  which  I  can 
hardly  conceive,  I  presume  your  own  feelings  will  dictate 
to  you  the  propriety  of  declining  the  appointment." 

"But  if  I  accept  the  appointment,  and  yet  disagree  with 
the  bishop,  what  then  ?" 

This  question  rather  bothered  Mr.  Slope. 

It  was  true  that  he  had  talked  the  matter  over  with  the 
bishop,  and  had  received  a  sort  of  authority  for  suggest- 
ing to  Mr.  Harding  the  propriety  of  a  Sunday  school,  and 
certain  hospital  services ;  but  he  had  no  authority  for  say- 
ing that  these  propositions  were  to  be  made  peremptory 
conditions  attached  to  the  appointment.  The  bishop's  idea 
had  been  that  Mr.  Harding  would  of  course  consent,  and 
that  the  school  would  become,   like  the  rest  of  those  new 

105 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

establishments  in  the  city,  under  the  control  of  his  wife 
and  his  chaplain.  Mr.  Slope's  idea  had  been  more  correct. 
He  intended  that  Mr.  Harding  should  refuse  the  situation, 
and  that  an  ally  of  his  own  should  get  it;  but  he  had  not 
conceived  the  possibility  of  Mr.  Harding  openly  accepting 
the  appointment,  and  as  openly  rejecting  the  conditions. 

"It  is  not,  I  presume,  probable,"  said  he,  "that  you  will 
accept  from  the  hands  of  the  bishop  a  piece  of  preferment, 
with  a  fixed  predetermination  to  disacknowledge  the  duties 
attached  to  it." 

"If  I  become  warden,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  "and  neglect 
my  duty,  the  bishop  has  means  by  which  he  can  remedy 
the  grievance." 

"I  hardly  expected  such  an  argument  from  you,  or  I  may 
say  the  suggestion  of  such  a  line  of  conduct,"  said  Mr. 
Slope,  with  a  great  look  of  injured  virtue. 

"Nor  did  I  expect  such  a  proposition." 

"I  shall  be  glad  at  any  rate  to  know  what  answer  I  am 
to  make  to  his  lordship,"  said  Mr.  Slope. 

"I  will  take  an  early  opportunity  of  seeing  his  lordship 
myself,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"Such  an  arrangement,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "will  hardly  give 
his  lordship  satisfaction.  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  that  the 
bishop  should  himself  see  every  clergyman  in  the  diocese 
on  every  subject  of  patronage  that  may  arise.  The  bishop,  I 
believe,  did  see  you  on  the  matter,  and  I  really  cannot  see 
why  he  should  be  troubled  to  do  so  again." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Slope,  how  long  I  have  been  officiat- 
ing as  a  clergyman  in  this  city?"  Mr.  Slope's  wish  was 
now  nearly  fulfilled.  Mr.  Harding  had  become  angry,  and 
it  was  probable  that  he  might  commit  himself. 

"I  really  do  not  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  the  question. 
You  cannot  think  the  bishop  would  be  justified  in  allowing 
you  to  regard  as  a  sinecure  a  situation  that  requires  an  active 
man,  merely  because  you  have  been  employed  for  many 
years  in  the  cathedral." 

"But  it  might  induce  the  bishop  to  see  me,  if  I  asked  him 
to  do  so.  I  shall  consult  my  friends  in  this  matter,  Mr. 
Slope ;  but  I  mean  to  be  guilty  of  no  subterfuge, — you  may 
tell  the  bishop  that  as  I  altogether  disagree  with  his  views 

io6 


THE   RUBBISH    CART. 

about  the  hospital,  I  shall  decline  the  situation  if  I  find  that 
any  such  conditions  are  attached  to  it  as  those  you  have 
suggested;"  and  so  saying,  Mr.  Harding  took  his  hat  and 
went  his  way. 

Mr.  Slope  was  contented.  He  considered  himself  at 
liberty  to  accept  Mr.  Harding's  last  speech  as  an  absolute 
refusal  of  the  appointment.  At  least,  he  so  represented  it 
to  the  bishop  and  to  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"That  is  very  surprising,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "you  little  know  how 
determined  the  whole  set  of  them  are  to  withstand  your 
authority." 

"But  Mr.  Harding  was  so  anxious  for  it,"  said  the  bishop. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "if  he  can  hold  it  without  the 
slightest  acknowledgment  of  your  lordship's  jurisdiction." 

"That  is  out  of  the  question," 'said  the  bishop. 

"I  should  imagine  it  to  be  quite  so,"  said  the  chaplain. 

"Indeed,   I  should  think  so,"  said  the  lady. 

"I  really  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  the  bishop. 

"I  don't  know  that  there  is  much  cause  for  sorrow,"  said 
the  lady.  "Air.  Quiverful  is  a  much  more  deserving  man, 
more  in  need  of  it,  and  one  who  will  make  himself  much 
more  useful  in  the  close  neighbourhood  of  the  palace." 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  see  Quiverful?"  said  the  chap- 
lain, 

"I  suppose  you  had,"  said  the  bishop. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   RUBBISH    CART. 

MR.  HARDING  was  not  a  happy  man  as  he  walked 
down  the  palace  pathway,  and  stepped  out  into  the 
close.  His  preferment  and  pleasant  house  were  a  second 
time  gone  from  him ;  but  that  he  could  endure.  He  had 
been  schooled  and  insulted  by  a  man  young  enough  to  be 
his  son;  but  that  he  could  put  up  with.  He  could  even 
draw  from  the  very  injuries,  which  had  been  inflicted  on 
him,  some  of  that  consolation  which  we  may  believe  martyrs 

107 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

always  receive  from  the  injustice  of  their  own  sufferings, 
and  which  is  generally  proportioned  in  its  strength  to  the 
extent  of  cruelty  with  which  martyrs  are  treated.  He  had 
admitted  to  his  daughter  that  he  wanted  the  comfort  of  his 
old  home,  and  yet  he  could  have  returned  to  his  lodgings 
in  the  High  Street,  if  not  with  exultation,  at  least  with 
satisfaction,  had  that  been  all.  But  the  venom  of  the  chap- 
lain's harangue  had  worked  into  his  blood,  and  sapped  the 
life  of  his  sweet  contentment. 

"New  men  are  carrying  out  new  measures,  and  are  cart- 
ing away  the  useless  rubbish  of  past  centuries !"  What 
cruel  words  these  had  been ;  and  how  often  are  they  now 
used  with  all  the  heartless  cruelty  of  a  Slope !  A  man  is 
sufficiently  condemned  if  it  can  only  be  shown  that  either 
in  politics  or  religion  he  does  not  belong  to  some  new  school 
established  within  the  last  score  of  years.  He  may  then 
regard  himself  as  rubbish  and  expect  to  be  carted  away.  A 
man  is  nothing  now  unless  he  has  within  him  a  full  appre- 
ciation of  the  new  era ;  an  era  in  which  it  would  seem  that 
neither  honesty  nor  truth  is  very  desirable,  but  in  which 
success  is  the  only  touchstone  of  merit.  We  must  laugh 
at  every  thing  that  is  established.  Let  the  joke  be  ever  so 
bad,  ever  so  untrue  to  the  real  principles  of  joking ;  never- 
theless we  must  laugh — or  else  beware  the  cart.  We  must 
talk,  think,  and  live  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  and  write 
up  to  it  too,  if  that  cacoethes  be  upon  us,  or  else  we  are 
nought.  New  men  and  new  measures,  long  credit  and  few 
scruples,  great  success  or  wonderful  ruin,  such  are  now 
the  tastes  of  Englishmen  who  know  how  to  live.  Alas,  alas ! 
under  such  circumstances  Mr.  Harding  could  not  but  feel 
that  he  was  an  Englishman  who  did  not  know  how  to  live. 
This  new  doctrine  of  Mr.  Slope  and  the  rubbish  cart,  new 
at  least  at  Barchester,  sadly  disturbed  his  equanimity. 

"The  same  thing  is  going  on  throughout  the  whole  coun- 
try !"  "Work  is  now  required  from  every  man  who  receives 
wages !"  And  had  he  been  living  all  his  life  receiving 
wages,  and  doing  no  work?  Had  he  in  truth  so  lived  as  to 
be  now  in  his  old  age  justly  reckoned  as  rubbish  fit  only 
to  be  hidden  away  in  some  huge  dust  hole?  The  school  of 
men   to   whom    he   professes   to  belong,   the    Grantlys,   the 

1 08 


THE    RUBBISH    CART. 

Gwynnes,  and  the  old  high  set  of  Oxford  divines,  are  afflict- 
ed with  no  such  self-accusations  as  these  which  troubled 
Mr.  Harding.  They,  as  a  rule,  are  as  satisfied  with  the 
wisdom  and  propriety  of  their  own  conduct  as  can  be  any 
Mr.  Slope,  or  any  Dr.  Proudie,  with  his  own.  But  unfortu- 
nately for  himself  Mr.  Harding  had  little  of  this  self-re- 
liance. When  he  heard  himself  designated  as  rubbish  by 
the  Slopes  of  the  world,  he  had  no  other  resource  than  to 
make  inquiry  within  his  own  bosom  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
designation.  Alas,  alas !  the  evidence  seemed  generally  to 
go  against  him. 

He  had  professed  to  himself  in  the  bishop's  parlour  that 
in  these  coming  sources  of  the  sorrow  of  age,  in  these  fits 
of  sad  regret  from  which  the  latter  years  of  few  reflecting 
men  can  be  free,  religion  would  suffice  to  comfort  him.  Yes, 
religion  could  console  him  for  the  loss  of  any  worldly  good ; 
but  was  his  religion  of  that  active  sort  which  would  enable 
him  so  to  repent  of  misspent  years  as  to  pass  those  that 
were  left  to  him  in  a  spirit  of  hope  for  the  future?  And 
such  repentance  itself,  is  it  not  a  work  of  agony  and  of 
tears  ?  It  is  very  easy  to  talk  of  repentance ;  but  a  man 
has  to  walk  over  hot  ploughshares  before  he  can  complete 
it ;  to  be  skinned  alive  as  was  St.  Bartholomew ;  to  be  stuck 
full  of  arrows  as  was  St.  Sebastian;  to  lie  broiling  on  a 
gridiron  like  St.  Lorenzo !  How  if  his  past  life  required  such 
repentance  as  this?  had  he  the  energy  to  go  through  with 
it? 

Mr.  Harding,  after  leaving  the  palace,  walked  slowly  for 
an  hour  or  so  beneath  the  shady  elms  of  the  close,  and 
then  betook  himself  to  his  daughter's  house.  He  had  at 
any  rate  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  out  to  Plum- 
stead  to  consult  Dr.  Grantly,  and  that  he  would  in  the  first 
instance  tell  Eleanor  what  had  occurred. 

And  now  he  was  doomed  to  undergo  another  misery.  Mr. 
Slope  had  forestalled  him  at  the  widow's  house.  He  had 
called  there  on  the  preceding  afternoon.  He  could  not,  he 
had  said,  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  telling  Mrs.  Bold 
that  her  father  was  about  to  return  to  the  pretty  house  at 
Hiram's  hospital.  He  had  been  instructed  by  the  bishop  to 
inform   Mr.  Harding  that  the  appointment  would  now  be 

109 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

made  at  once.  The  bishop  was  of  course  only  too  happy 
to  be  able  to  be  the  means  of  restoring  to  Mr.  Harding  the 
preferment  which  he  had  so  long  adorned.  And  then  by 
degrees  Mr.  Slope  had  introduced  the  subject  of  the  pretty 
school  which  he  hoped  before  long  to  see  attached  to  the 
hospital.  He  had  quite  fascinated  Mrs.  Bold  by  his  descrip- 
tion of  this  picturesque,  useful,  and  charitable  appendage, 
and  she  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  she  had  no  doubt 
her  father  would  approve,  and  that  she  herself  would  gladly 
undertake  a  class. 

Any  one  who  had  heard  the  entirely  different  tone  and 
seen  the  entirely  different  manner  in  which  Mr.  Slope  had 
spoken  of  this  projected  institution  to  the  daughter  and 
to  the  father,  could  not  have  failed  to  own  that  Mr.  Slope 
was  a  man  of  genius.  He  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Bold  about 
the  hospital  sermons  and  services,  nothing  about  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  old  men  from  the  cathedral,  nothing  about  di- 
lapidation and  painting,  nothing  about  carting  away  the 
rubbish.  Eleanor  had  said  to  herself  that  certainly  she  did 
not  like  Mr.  Slope  personally,  but  that  he  was  a  very  active, 
zealous  clergyman,  and  would  no  doubt  be  useful  in  Bar- 
chester.  All  this  paved  the  way  for  much  additional  misery 
to  Mr.  Harding. 

Eleanor  put  on  her  happiest  face  as  she  heard  her  father 
on  the  stairs,  for  she  thought  she  had  only  to  congratulate 
him ;  but  directly  she  saw  his  face,  she  knew  that  there  was 
but  little  matter  for  congratulation.  She  had  seen  him  with 
the  same  weary  look  of  sorrow  on  one  or  two  occasions  be- 
fore, and  remembered  it  well.  She  had  seen  him  when  he 
first  read  that  attack  upon  himself  in  the  Jupiter  which  had 
ultimately  caused  him  to  resign  the  hospital ;  and  she  had 
seen  him  also  when  the  archdeacon  had  persuaded  him  to 
remain  there  against  his  own  sense  of  propriety  and  honour. 
She  knew  at  a  glance  that  his  spirit  was  in  deep  trouble. 

"Oh,  papa,  what  is  it?"  said  she,  putting  down  her  boy 
to  crawl  upon  the  floor. 

"I  came  to  tell  you,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "that  I  am  going 
out  to  Plumstead ;  you  won't  come  with  me,  I  suppose  ?" 

"To  Plumstead,  papa.     Shall  you  stay  there?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall,  to-night :  I  must  consult  the  archdea- 

IIO 


THE    RUBBISH    CART. 

con  about  this  weary  hospital.  Ah  me !  I  wish  I  had  never 
thought  of  it  again." 

"Why,  papa,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"I've  been  with  Mr.  Slope,  my  dear,  and  he  isn't  the  pleas- 
antest  companion  in  the  world,  at  least  not  to  me."  Eleanor 
gave  a  sort  of  half  blush ;  but  she  was  wrong  if  she  imagined 
that  her  father  in  any  way  alluded  to  her  acquaintance  with 
Mr,  Slope. 

"Well,  papa." 

"He  wants  to  turn  the  hospital  into  a  Sunday  school  and 
a  preaching  house ;  and  I  suppose  he  will  have  his  way.  I 
do  not  feel  myself  adapted  for  such  an  establishment,  and 
therefore,  I  suppose,  I  must  refuse  the  appointment." 

"What  would  be  the  harm  of  the  school,  papa?" 

"The  want  of  a  proper  schoolmaster,  my  dear." 

"But  that  would  of  course  be  supplied." 

"Mr.  Slope  wishes  to  supply  it  by  making  me  his  school- 
master. But  as  I  am  hardly  fit  for  such  work,  I  intend  to 
decline." 

"Oh,  papa !  Mr.  Slope  doesn't  intend  that.  He  was  here 
yesterday,  and  what  he  intends " 

"He  was  here  yesterday,  was  he?"  asked  Mr.  Harding. 

"Yes,  papa." 

"And  talking  about  the  hospital?" 

"He  was  saying  how  glad  he  would  be,  and  the  bishop 
too,  to  see  you  back  there  again.  And  then  he  spoke  about 
the  Sunday  school ;  and  to  tell  the  truth  I  agreed  with  him ; 
and  I  thought  you  would  have  done  so  too.  Mr.  Slope 
spoke  of  a  school,  not  inside  the  hospital,  but  just  connected 
with  it,  of  which  you  would  be  the  patron  and  visitor ;  and 
I  thought  you  would  have  liked  such  a  school  as  that ;  and 
I  promised  to  look  after  it  and  to  take  a  class — and  it  all 

seemed  so  very ,    But,  oh,  papa !    I  shall  be  so  miserable 

if  I  find  I  have  done  wrong." 

"Nothing  wrong  at  all,  my  dear,"  said  he,  gently,  very 
gently  rejecting  his  daughter's  caress.  "There  can  be  noth- 
ing wrong  in  your  wishing  to  make  yourself  useful ;  indeed, 
you  ought  to  do  so  by  all  means.  Every  one  must  now  exert 
himself  who  would  not  choose  to  go  to  the  wall."  Poor 
Mr   Harding  thus  attempted  in  his  misery  to  preach  the  new 

III 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

doctrine  to  his  child.  "Himself  or  herself,  it's  all  the  same," 
he  continued ;  "you  will  be  quite  right,  my  dear,  to  do  some- 
thing of  this  sort,  but " 

"Well,  papa?" 

"I  am  not  quite  sure  that  if  I  were  you  I  would  select 
Mr.  Slope  for  my  guide." 

"But  I  have  never  done  so,  and  never  shall." 

"It  would  be  very  wicked  of  me  to  speak  evil  of  him, 
for  to  tell  the  truth  I  know  no  evil  of  him ;  but  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  he  is  honest.  That  he  is  not  gentleman-like 
in  his  manners,  of  that  I  am  quite  sure." 

"I  never  thought  of  taking  him  for  my  guide,  papa." 

"As  for  myself,  my  dear,"  continued  he,  "we  know  the 
old  proverb — 'It's  bad  teaching  an  old  dog  tricks.'  I  must 
decline  the  Sunday  school,  and  shall  therefore  probably  de- 
cline the  hospital  also.  But  I  will  first  see  your  brother-in- 
law."  So  he  took  up  his  hat,  kissed  the  baby,  and  with- 
drew, leaving  Eleanor  in  as  low  spirits  as  himself. 

All  this  was  a  great  aggravation  to  his  misery.  He  had 
so.  few  with  whom  to  sympathise,  that  he  could  not  afford 
to  be  cut  off  from  the  one  whose  sympathy  was  of  the  most 
value  to  him.  And  yet  it  seemed  probable  that  this  would 
be  the  case.  He  did  not  own  to  himself  that  he  wished  his 
daughter  to  hate  Mr.  Slope ;  yet  had  she  expressed  such  a 
feeling  there  would  have  been  very  little  bitterness  in  the 
rebuke  he  would  have  given  her  for  so  uncharitable  a  state 
of  mind.  The  fact,  however,  was  that  she  was  on  friendly 
terms  with  Mr.  Slope,  that  she  coincided  with  his  views, 
adhered  at  once  to  his  plans,  and  listened  with  delight  to 
his  teaching.  Mr.  Harding  hardly  wished  his  daughter  to 
hate  the  man,  but  he  would  have  preferred  that  to  her  lov- 
ing him. 

He  walked  away  to  the  inn  to  order  a  fly,  went  home  to 
put  up  his  carpet  bag,  and  then  started  for  Plumstead. 
There  was,  at  any  rate,  no  danger  that  the  archdeacon  would 
fraternize  with  Mr.  Slope;  but  then  he  would  recommend 
internecine  war,  public  appeals,  loud  reproaches,  and  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  open  battle.  Now  that  alternative  was 
hardly  more  to  Mr.  Harding's  taste  than  the  other. 

When  Mr.  Harding  reached  the  parsonage  he  found  that 

112 


THE   RUBBISH    CART. 

the  archdeacon  was  out,  and  would  not  be  home  till  dinner- 
time, so  he  began  his  complaint  to  his  elder  daughter.  Mrs. 
Grantly  entertained  quite  as  strong  an  antagonism  of  Mr. 
Slope  as  did  her  husband ;  she  was  also  quite  as  alive  to  the 
necessity  of  combating  the  Proudie  faction,  of  supporting 
the  old  church  interest  of  the  close,  of  keeping  in  her  own 
set  such  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  as  duly  belonged  to  it ;  and 
was  quite  as  well  prepared  as  her  lord  to  carry  on  the  battle 
without  giving  or  taking  quarter.  Not  that  she  was  a  wom- 
an prone  to  quarreling,  or  ill  inclined  to  live  at  peace  with 
her  clerical  neighbours;  but  she  felt,  as  did  the  archdeacon, 
that  the  presence  of  Mr.  Slope  in  Barchester  was  an  insult 
to  every  one  connected  with  the  late  bishop,  and  that  his 
assumed  dominion  in  the  diocese  was  a  spiritual  injury  to 
her  husband.  Hitherto  people  had  little  guessed  how  bitter 
Mrs.  Grantly  could  be.  She  lived  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
all  the  rectors'  wives  around  her.  She  had  been  popular 
with  all  the  ladies  connected  with  the  close.  Though 
much  the  wealthiest  of  the  ecclesiastical  matrons  of  the 
county,  she  had  so  managed  her  afifairs  that  her  carriage 
and  horses  had  given  umbrage  to  none.  She  had  never 
thrown  herself  among  the  county  grandees  so  as  to  excite 
the  envy  of  other  clergymen's  wives.  She  had  never  talked 
too  loudly  of  earls  and  countesses,  or  boasted  that  she  gave 
her  governess  sixty  pounds  a  year,  or  her  cook  seventy. 
Mrs.  Grantly  had  lived  the  life  of  a  wise,  discreet,  peace- 
making woman ;  and  the  people  of  Barchester  were  surprised 
at  the  amount  of  military  vigour  she  displayed  as  general 
of  the  feminine  Grantlyite  forces. 

Mrs.  Grantly  soon  learnt  that  her  sister  Eleanor  had 
promised  to  assist  Mr.  Slope  in  the  afifairs  of  the  hospital ; 
and  it  was  on  this  point  that  her  attention  soon  fixed  itself. 

"How  can  Eleanor  endure  him?"  said  she. 

"He  is  a  very  crafty  man,"  said  her  father,  "and  his  craft 
has  been  successful  in  making  Eleanor  think  that  he  is  a 
meek,  charitable,  good  clergyman.  God  forgive  me,  if  I 
wrong  him,  but  such  is  not  his  true  character  in  my  opin- 
ion." 

"His  true  character,  indeed !"  said  she,  with  something 
approaching  to  scorn  for  her  father's  moderation.     "I  only 

8  113 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

hope  he  won't  have  craft  enough  to  make  Eleanor  forget 
herself  and  her  position." 

"Do  you  mean  marry  him?"  said  he,  startled  out  of  his 
usual  demeanour  by  the  abruptness  and  horror  of  so  dreadful 
a  proposition. 

"What  is  there  so  improbable  in  it?  Of  course  that  would 
be  his  own  object  if  he  thought  he  had  any  chance  of  suc- 
cess. Eleanor  has  a  thousand  a  year  entirely  at  her  own 
disposal,  and  what  better  fortune  could  fall  to  Mr.  Slope's 
lot  than  the  transferring  of  the  disposal  of  such  a  fortune 
to  himself?" 

"But  you  can't  think  she  likes  him,  Susan?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Susan,  "Why  shouldn't  she  like  him? 
He's  just  the  sort  of  man  to  get  on  with  a  woman  left  as 
she  is,  with  no  one  to  look  after  her." 

"Look  after  her !"  said  the  unhappy  father ;  "don't  we  look 
after  her?" 

"Ah,  papa,  how  innocent  you  are!  Of  course  it  was  to 
be  expected  that  Eleanor  should  marry  again.  I  should  be 
the  last  to  advise  her  against  it,  if  she  would  only  wait  the 
proper  time,  and  then  marry  at  least  a  gentleman." 

"But  you  don't  really  mean  to  say  that  you  suppose  Elea- 
nor has  ever  thought  of  marrying  Mr.  Slope?  Why,  Mr. 
Bold  has  only  been  dead  a  year." 

"Eighteen  months,"  said  his  daughter.  "But  I  don't  sup- 
pose Eleanor  has  ever  thought  about  it.  It  is  very  probable, 
though,  that  he  has,  and  that  he  will  try  and  make  her  to  do 
so ;  and  that  he  will  succeed,  too,  if  we  don't  take  care  what 
we  are  about." 

This  was  quite  a  new  phase  of  the  affair  to  poor  Mr. 
Harding.  To  have  thrust  upon  him  as  his  son-in-law,  as 
the  husband  of  his  favourite  child,  the  only  man  in  the  world 
whom  he  really  positively  disliked,  would  be  a  misfortune 
which  he  felt  he  would  not  know  how  to  endure  patiently. 
But  then,  could  there  be  any  ground  for  so  dreadful  a  sur- 
mise? In  all  worldly  matters  he  was  apt  to  look  upon  the 
opinion  of  his  eldest  daughter  as  one  generally  sound  and 
trustworthy.  In  her  appreciation  of  character,  of  motives, 
and  the  probable  conduct  both  of  men  and  women,  she  was 
usually  not  far  wrong.     She  had  early  foreseen  the  marriage 

114 


THE   RUBBISH    CART. 

of  Eleanor  and  John  Bold;  she  had  at  a  glance  deciphered 
the  character  of  the  new  bishop  and  his  chaplain;  could  it 
possibly  be  that  her  present  surmise  should  ever  come  forth 
as  true? 

"But  you  don't  think  that  she  likes  him  ?"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing again. 

"Well,  papa,  I  can't  say  that  I  think  she  dislikes  him  as 
she  ought  to  do.  Why  is  he  visiting  there  as  a  confidential 
friend,  when  he  never  ought  to  have  been  admitted  inside 
the  house?  Why  is  it  that  she  speaks  to  him  about  your 
welfare  and  your  position,  as  she  clearly  has  done?  At  the 
bishop's  party  the  other  night,  I  saw  her  talking  to  him  for 
half  an  hour  at  the  stretch." 

"I  thought  Mr.  Slope  seemed  to  talk  to  nobody  there  but 
that  daughter  of  Stanhope's,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  wishing  to 
defend  his  child. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Slope  is  a  cleverer  man  than  you  think  of,  papa, 
and  keeps  more  than  one  iron  in  the  fire." 

To  give  Eleanor  her  due,  any  suspicion  as  to  the  slightest 
inclination  on  her  part  towards  Mr.  Slope  was  a  wrong  to 
her.  She  had  no  more  idea  of  marrying  Mr.  Slope  than 
she  had  of  marrying  the  bishop ;  and  the  idea  that  Mr.  Slope 
would  present  himself  as  a  suitor  had  never  occurred  to  her. 
Indeed,  to  give  her  her  due  again,  she  had  never  thought 
about  suitors  since  her  husband's  death.  But  nevertheless 
it  was  true  that  she  had  overcome  all  the  repugnance  to 
the  man  which  was  so  strongly  felt  for  him  by  the  rest  of 
the  Grantly  faction.  She  had  forgiven  him  his  sermon.  She 
had  forgiven  him  his  low  church  tendencies,  his  Sabbath 
schools,  and  puritanical  observance.  She  had  forgiven  his 
Pharisaical  arrogance,  and  even  his  greasy  face  and  oily, 
vulgar  manners.  Having  agreed  to  overlook  such  offences 
as  these,  why  should  she  not  in  time  be  taught  to  regard 
Mr.  Slope  as  a  suitor? 

And  as  to  him,  it  must  also  be  affirmed  that  he  was  hither- 
to equally  innocent  of  the  crime  imputed  to  him.  How  it 
had  come  to  pass  that  a  man  whose  eyes  were  generally  so 
widely  open  to  everything  around  him  had  not  perceived 
that  this  young  widow  was  rich  as  well  as  beautiful,  cannot 
probably  now  be  explained.     But  such  was  the  fact.     Mr. 

115 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Slope  had  ingratiated  himself  with  Mrs.  Bold,  merely  as  he 
had  done  with  other  ladies,  in  order  to  strengthen  his  party 
in  the  city.  He  subsequently  amended  his  error;  but  it  was 
not  till  after  the  interview  between  him  and  Mr.  Harding. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE    NEW    CHAMPION. 

THE  archdeacon  did  not  return  to  the  parsonage  till 
close  upon  the  hour  of  dinner,  and  there  was  there- 
fore no  time  to  discuss  matters  before  that  important  cere- 
mony. He  seemed  to  be  in  an  especial  good  humour,  and 
welcomed  his  father-in-law  with  a  sort  of  jovial  earnestness 
that  was  unusual  with  him  when  things  on  which  he  was 
intent  were  going  on  as  he  would  have  them. 

"It's  all  settled,  my  dear,"  said  he  to  his  wife  as  he  washed 
his  hands  in  his  dressing-room,  while  she,  according  to  her 
wont,  sat  listening  in  the  bedroom ;  "Arabin  has  agreed 
to  accept  the  living.  He'll  be  here  next  week."  And  the 
archdeacon  scrubbed  his  hands  and  rubbed  his  face  with  a 
violent  alacrity,  which  showed  that  Arabin's  coming  was 
a  great  point  gained. 

"Will  he  come  here  to  Plumstead  ?"  said  the  wife. 

"He  has  promised  to  stay  a  month  with  us,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, "so  that  he  may  see  what  his  parish  is  like.  You'll 
like  Arabin  very  much.  He's  a  gentleman  in  every  respect, 
and  full  of  humour." 

"He's  very  queer,  isn't  he?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Well— he  is  a  little  odd  in  some  of  his  fancies ;  but  there's 
nothing  about  him  you  won't  like.  He  is  as  staunch  a 
churchman  as  there  is  at  Oxford.  I  really  don't  know  what 
we  should  do  without  Arabin.  It's  a  great  thing  for  me  to 
have  him  so  near  me ;  and  if  anything  can  put  Slope  down, 
Arabin  will  do  it." 

The  Reverend  Francis  Arabin  was  a  fellow  of  Lazarus, 
the  favoured  disciple  of  the  great  Dr.  Gwynne,  a  high 
churchman  at  all  points ;  so  high,  indeed,  that  at  one  period 
of  his  career  he  had  all  but  toppled  over  into   the  cesspool 

ii6 


THE    NEW    CHAMPION. 

of  Rome;  a  poet  and  also  a  polemical  writer,  a  great  pet  in 
the  common  rooms  at  Oxford,  an  eloquent  clergyman,  a 
droll,  odd,  humorous,  energetic,  conscientious  man,  and  as 
the  archdeacon  had  boasted  of  him,  a  thorough  gentleman. 
As  he  will  hereafter  be  brought  more  closely  to  our  notice, 
it  is  now  only  necessary  to  add,  that  he  had  just  been  pre- 
sented to  the  vicarage  of  St.  Ewold  by  Dr.  Grantly,  in  whose 
gift  as  archdeacon  the  living  lay.  St.  Ewold  is  a  parish 
lying  just  without  the  city  of  Barchester.  The  suburbs  of 
the  new  town,  indeed,  are  partly  within  its  precincts,  and 
the  pretty  church  and  parsonage  are  not  much  above  a  mile 
distant  from  the  city  gate. 

St.  Ewold  is  not  a  rich  piece  of  preferment —  it  is  worth 
some  three  or  four  hundred  a  year  at  most,  and  has  gener- 
ally been  held  by  a  clergyman  attached  to  the  cathedral 
choir.  The  archdeacon,  however,  felt,  when  the  living  on 
this  occasion  became  vacant,  that  it  imperatively  behoved 
him  to  aid  the  force  of  his  party  with  some  tower  of 
strength,  if  any  such  tower  could  be  got  to  occupy  St. 
Ewold's.  He  had  discussed  the  matter  with  his  brethren 
in  Barchester;  not  in  any  weak  spirit  as  the  holder  of  pat- 
ronage to  be  used  for  his  own  or  his  family's  benefit,  but 
as  one  to  whom  was  committed  a  trust,  on  the  due  adminis- 
tration of  which  much  of  the  church's,  welfare  might  depend. 
He  had  submitted  to  them  the  name  of  Mr.  Arabin,  as 
though  the  choice  had  rested  with  them  all  in  conclave,  and 
they  had  unanimously  admitted  that  if  Mr.  Arabin  would 
accept  St.  Ewold's  no  better  choice  could  possibly  be  made. 

If  Mr.  Arabin  would  accept  St.  Ewold's !  There  lay  the 
difficulty.  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  man  standing  somewhat  promi- 
nently before  the  world,  that  is,  before  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land world.  He  was  not  a  rich  man,  it  is  true,  for  he  held 
no  preferment  but  his  fellowship ;  but  he  was  a  man  not 
over  anxious  for  riches,  not  married  of  course,  and  one 
whose  time  was  greatly  taken  up  in  discussing,  both  in  print 
and  on  platform,  the  privileges  and  practices  of  the  church 
to  which  he  belonged.  As  the  archdeacon  had  done  battle 
for  its  temporalities,  so  did  Mr.  Arabin  do  battle  for  its 
spiritualities ;  and  both  had  done  so  conscientiouslv ;  that  is, 
not  so  much  each  for  his  own  benefit  as  for  that  of  others. 

117 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Holding  such  a  position  as  Mr.  Arabin  did,  there  was 
much  reason  to  doubt  whether  he  would  consent  to  become 
the  parson  of  St.  Ewold's,  and  Dr.  Grantly  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  go  himself  to  Oxford  on  the  matter.  Dr.  Gwynne 
and  Dr.  Grantly  together  had  succeeded  in  persuading  this 
eminent  divine  that  duty  required  him  to  go  to  Barchester. 
There  were  wheels  within  wheels  in  this  affair.  For  some 
time  past  Mr.  Arabin  had  been  engaged  in  a  tremendous 
controversy  with  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Slope,  respecting 
the  apostolic  succession.  These  two  gentlemen  had  never 
seen  each  other,  but  they  had  been  extremely  bitter  in  print. 
Mr.  Slope  had  endeavoured  to  strengthen  his  cause  by  call- 
ing Mr.  Arabin  an  owl,  and  Mr.  Arabin  had  retaliated  by 
hinting  that  Mr.  Slope  was  an  infidel.  This  battle  had  been 
commenced  in  the  columns  of  the  daily  Jupiter,  a  powerful 
newspaper,  the  manager  of  which  was  very  friendly  to  Mr. 
Slope's  view  of  the  case.  The  matter,  however,  had  be- 
come too  tedious  for  the  readers  of  the  Jupiter,  and  a  little 
note  had  therefore  been  appended  to  one  of  Mr.  Slope's  most 
telling  rejoinders,  in  which  it  had  been  stated  that  no  further 
letters  from  the  reverend  gentleman  could  be  inserted  ex- 
cept as  advertisements. 

Other  methods  of  publication  were,  however,  found  less 
expensive  than  advertisements  in  the  Jupiter;  and  the  war 
went  on  merrily.  Mr.  Slope  declared  that  the  main  part  of 
the  consecration  of  a  clergyman  was  the  self-devotion  of  the 
inner  man  to  the  duties  of  the  ministry.  Mr.  Arabin  con- 
tended that  a  man  was  not  consecrated  at  all,  had,  indeed, 
no  single  attribute  of  a  clergyman,  unless  he  became  so 
through  the  imposition  of  some  bishop's  hands,  who  had 
become  a  bishop  through  the  imposition  of  other  hands,  and 
so  on  in  a  direct  line  to  one  of  the  apostles.  Each  had  re- 
peatedly hung  the  other  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma ;  but 
neither  seemed  to  be  a  whit  the  worse  for  the  hanging;  and 
so  the  war  went  on  merrily. 

Whether  or  no  the  near  neighbourhood  of  the  foe  may 
have  acted  in  any  way  as  an  inducement  to  Mr.  Arabin  to 
accept  the  living  of  St.  Ewold,  we  will  not  pretend  to  say; 
but  it  had  at  anv  rate  been  settled  in  Dr.  Gwynne's  librarv. 
at  Lazarus,  that  he  would  accept  it,  and  that  he  would  lend 

ii8 


THE   NEW    CHAMPION. 

his  assistance  towards  driving  the  enemy  out  of  Barchester, 
or,  at  any  rate,  silencing  him  while  he  remained  there.  Mr. 
Arabin  intended  to  keep  his  rooms  at  Oxford,  and  to  have 
the  assistance  of  a  curate  at  St.  Ewold ;  but  he  promised  to 
give  as  much  time  as  possible  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Bar- 
chester, and  from  so  great  a  man  Dr.  Grantly  was  quite 
satisfied  with  such  a  promise.  It  was  no  small  part  of  the 
satisfaction  derivable  from  such  an  arrangement  that  Bishop 
Proudie  would  be  forced  to  institute  into  a  living,  immediate- 
ly under  his  own  nose,  the  enemy  of  his  favourite  chaplain. 

All  through  dinner  the  archdeacon's  good  humour  shone 
brightly  in  his  face.  He  ate  of  the  good  things  heartily, 
he  drank  wine  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  he  talked  pleas- 
antly of  his  doings  at  Oxford,  told  his  father-in-law  that  he 
ought  to  visit  Dr.  Gwynne  at  Lazarus,  and  launched  out 
again  in  praise  of  Mr.  Arabin. 

"Is  Mr.  Arabin  married,  papa?"  asked  Griselda. 

"No,  my  dear;  the  fellow  of  a  college  is  never  married." 

"Is  he  a  young  man,  papa?" 

"About  forty,  I  believe,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Oh!"  said  Griselda.  Had  her  father  said  eighty,  Mr. 
Arabin  would  not  have  appeared  to  her  to  be  very  much 
older. 

When  the  two  gentlemen  were  left  alone  over  their  wine, 
Mr.  Harding  told  his  tale  of  woe.  But  even  this,  sad  as  it 
was,  did  not  much  diminish  the  archdeacon's  good  humour, 
though  it  greatly  added  to  his  pugnacity. 

"He  can't  do  it,"  said  Dr.  Grantly  over  and  over  again,  as 
his  father-in-law  explained  to  him  the  terms  on  which  the 
new  warden  of  the  hospital  was  to  be  appointed ;  "he  can't 
do  it.  What  he  says  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  listening 
to.     He  can't  alter  the  duties  of  the  place." 

"Who  can't?"  asked  the  ex-warden. 

"Neither  the  bishop  nor  the  chaplain,  nor  yet  the  bishop's 
wife,  who,  I  take  it,  has  really  more  to  say  to  such  matters 
than  either  of  the  other  two.  The  whole  body  corporate  of 
the  palace  together  have  no  power  to  turn  the  warden  of  the 
hospital  into  a  Sundav  schoolmaster." 

"But  the  bishop  has  the  power  to  appoint  whom  he  pleases, 

and '" 

119 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"I  don't  know  that ;  I  rather  think  he'll  find  he  has  no 
such  power.  Let  him  try  it,  and  see  what  the  press  will  say. 
For  once  we  shall  have  the  popular  cry  on  our  side.  But 
Proudie,  ass  as  he  is,  knows  the  world  too  well  to  get  such  a 
hornet's  nest  about  his  ears." 

Mr.  Harding  winced  at  the  idea  of  the  press.  He  had  had 
enough  of  that  sort  of  publicity,  and  was  unwilling  to  be 
shown  up  a  second  time  either  as  a  monster  or  as  a  martyr. 
He  gently  remarked  that  he  hoped  the  newspapers  would  not 
get  hold  of  his  name  again,  and  then  suggested  that  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  that  he  should  abandon  his  object. 
'T  am  getting  old,"  said  he;  "and  after  all  I  doubt  whether 
I  am  fit  to  undertake  new  duties." 

"New  duties !"  said  the  archdeacon  :  "don't  I  tell  you  there 
shall  be  no  new  duties?" 

"Or,  perhaps,  old  duties  either,"  said  Mr.  Harding;  "I 
think  I  will  remain  content  as  I  am."  The  picture  of  Mr. 
Slope  carting  away  the  rubbish  was  still  present  to  his 
mind. 

The  archdeacon  drank  ofif  his  glass  of  claret,  and  prepared 
himself  to  be  energetic.  "I  do  hope,"  said  he,  "that  you  are 
not  going  to  be  so  weak  as  to  allow  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Slope 
to  deter  you  from  doing  what  you  know  it  is  your  duty  to  do. 
You  know  it  is  your  duty  to  resume  your  place  at  the  hospital 
now  that  parliament  has  so  settled  the  stipend  as  to  remove 
those  difficulties  which  induced  you  to  resign  it.  You  can- 
not deny  this ;  and  should  your  timidity  now  prevent  you 
from  doing  so,  your  conscience  will  hereafter  never  forgive 
you ;"  and  as  he  finished  this  clause  of  his  speech,  he  pushed 
over  the  bottle  to  his  companion. 

"Your  conscience  will  never  forgive  you,"  he  continued. 
"You  resigned  the  place  from  conscientious  scruples,  scruples 
which  I  greatly  respected,  though  I  did  not  share  them.  All 
your  friends  respected  them,  and  you  left  your  house  as 
rich  in  reputation  as  you  were  ruined  in  fortune.  It  is  now 
expected  that  you  will  return.  Dr.  Gwynne  was  saying  only 
the  other  day " 

"Dr.  Gwynne  does  not  reflect  how  much  older  a  man  I 
am  now  than  when  he  last  saw  me." 

"Old — nonsense !"     said     the     archdeacon ;     "you     never 

120 


THE    NEW    CHAMPION. 

thought  yourself  old  till  you  listened  to  the  impudent  trash 
of  that  coxcomb  at  the  palace." 

"I  shall  be  sixty-five  if  I  live  till  November,"  said  Mr. 
Harding. 

"And  seventy-five,  if  you  live  till  November  ten  years," 
said  the  archdeacon.  "And  you  bid  fair  to  be  as  efficient 
then  as  you  were  ten  years  ago.  But  for  heaven's  sake  let 
us  have  no  pretence  in  this  matter.  Your  plea  of  old  age  is 
only  a  pretence.  But  you're  not  drinking  your  wine.  It  is 
only  a  pretence.  The  fact  is,  you  are  half  afraid  of  this 
Slope,  and  would  rather  subject  yourself  to  comparative 
poverty  and  discomfort,  than  to  come  to  blows  with  a  man 
who  will  trample  on  you,  if  you  let  him." 

"I  certainly  don't  like  coming  to  blows,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Nor  I  neither — but  sometimes  we  can't  help  it.  This 
man's  object  is  to  induce  you  to  refuse  the  hospital,  that  he 
may  put  some  creature  of  his  own  into  it ;  that  he  may  show 
his  power,  and  insult  us  all  by  insulting  you,  whose  cause 
and  character  are  so  intimately  bound  up  with  that  of  the 
chapter.  You  owe  it  to  us  all  to  resist  him  in  this,  even  if 
you  have  no  solicitude  for  yourself.  But  surely,  for  your 
own  sake,  you  will  not  be  so  lily-livered  as  to  fall  into  this 
trap  which  he  has  baited  for  you,  and  let  him  take  the  very 
bread  out  of  your  mouth  without  a  struggle." 

Mr.  Harding  did  not  like  being  called  lily-livered,  and  was 
rather  inclined  to  resent  it.  "I  doubt  there  is  any  true  cour- 
age," said  he,  "in  squabbling  for  money." 

"If  honest  men  did  not  squabble  for  money,  in  this  wicked 
world  of  ours,  the  dishonest  men  would  get  it  all ;  and  I  do 
not  see  that  the  cause  of  virtue  would  be  much  improved. 
No, — we  must  use  the  means  which  we  have.  If  we  were  to 
carry  your  argument  home,  we  might  give  away  every  shilling 
of  revenue  which  the  church  has ;  and  I  presume  you  are 
not  prepared  to  say  that  the  church  would  be  strengthened 
by  such  a  sacrifice."  The  archdeacon  filled  his  glass  and 
then  emptied  it,  drinking  with  much  reverence  a  silent  toast 
to  the  well-being  and  permanent  security  of  those  temporali- 
ties which  were  so  dear  to  his  soul. 

"I  think  all  quarrels  between  a  clergyman  and  his  bishop 
should  be  avoided,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

121 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"I  think  so  too;  but  it  is  quite  as  much  the  duty  of  the 
bishop  to  look  to  that  as  of  his  inferior.  I  tell  you  what, 
my  friend;  I'll  see  the  bishop  in  this  matter,  that  is,  if  you 
will  allow  me;  and  you  may  be  sure  I  will  not  compromise 
you.  My  opinion  is,  that  all  this  trash  about  the  Sunday- 
schools  and  the  sermons  has  originated  wholly  with  Slope 
and  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  that  the  bishop  knows  nothing  about 
it.  The  bishop  can't  very  well  refuse  to  see  me,  and  I'll  come 
upon  him  when  he  has  neither  his  wife  nor  his  chaplain  by 
him.  I  think  you'll  find  that  it  will  end  in  his  sending  you 
the  appointment  without  any  condition  whatever.  And  as 
to  the  seats  in  the  cathedral,  we  may  safely  leave  that  to  Mr. 
Dean.  I  believe  the  fool  positively  thinks  that  the  bishop 
could  walk  away  with  the  cathedral  if  he  pleased." 

And  so  the  matter  was  arranged  between  them.  Mr. 
Harding  had  come  expressly  for  advice,  and  therefore  felt 
himself  bound  to  take  the  advice  given  him.  He  had  known, 
moreover,  beforehand,  that  the  archdeacon  would  not  hear 
of  his  giving  the  matter  up,  and  accordingly,  though  he  had 
in  perfect  good  faith  put  forward  his  own  views,  he  was  pre- 
pared to  yield. 

They  therefore  went  into  the  drawing-room  in  good 
humour  with  each  other,  and  the  evening  passed  pleasantly 
in  prophetic  discussions  on  the  future  wars  of  Arabin  and 
Slope.  The  frogs  and  the  mice  would  be  nothing  to  them, 
nor  the  angers  of  Agamemnon  and  Achilles.  How  the 
archdeacon  rubbed  his  hands,  and  plumed  himself  on  the 
success  of  his  last  move !  He  could  not  himself  descend  into 
the  arena  with  Slope,  but  Arabin  would  have  no  such 
scruples.  Arabin  was  exactly  the  man  for  such  work,  and 
the  only  man  whom  he  knew  that  was  fit  for  it. 

The  archdeacon's  good  humour  and  high  buoyancy  con- 
tinued till,  when  reclining  on  his  pillow,  Mrs.  Grantly  com- 
menced to  give  him  her  view  of  the  state  of  ailfairs  at  Bar- 
chester.  And  then  certainly  he  was  startled.  The  last  words 
he  said  that  night  were  as  follows : — 

"If  she  does,  by  heaven  I'll  never  speak  to  her  again.  She 
dragged  me  into  the  mire  once,  but  I'll  not  pollute  myself 

with  such  filth  as  that "     And   the  archdeacon  gave  a 

shudder  which  shook  the  whole  room,  so  violently  was  he 

122 


THE   WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

convulsed  with  the  thought  which  then  agitated  his 
mind. 

Now  in  this  matter  the  widow  Bold  was  scandalously  ill- 
treated  by  her  relatives.  She  had  spoken  to  the  man  three 
or  four  times,  and  had  expressed  her  willingness  to  teach  in 
a  Sunday-school.  Such  was  the  full  extent  of  her  sins  in  the 
matter  of  Mr.  Slope.  Poor  Eleanor!  But  time  will 
show. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Harding  returned  to  Barchester, 
no  further  word  having  been  spoken  in  his  hearing  respecting 
Mr.  Slope's  acquaintance  with  his  younger  daughter.  But 
he  observed  that  the  archdeacon  at  breakfast  was  less  cordial 
than  he  had  been  on  the  preceding  evening. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE    widow's    suitors. 

MR.  SLOPE  lost  no  time  in  availing  himself  of  the  bish- 
op's permission  to  see  Mr.  Quiverful,  and  it  was  in 
his  interview  with  this  worthy  pastor  that  he  first  learned 
that  Mrs.  Bold  was  worth  the  wooing.  He  rode  out  to  Pud- 
dingdale  to  communicate  to  the  embryo  warden  the  good  will 
of  the  bishop  in  his  favour,  and  during  the  discussion  on  the 
matter  it  was  not  unnatural  that  the  pecuniary  resources  of 
Mr.  Harding  and  his  family  should  become  the  subject  of 
remark. 

Mr.  Quiverful  with  his  fourteen  children  and  his  four  hun- 
dred a  year,  was  a  very  poor  man,  and  the  prospect  of  this 
new  preferment,  which  was  to  be  held  together  with  his  liv- 
ing, was  very  grateful  to  him.  To  what  clergyman  so  cir- 
cumstanced would  not  such  a  prospect  be  very  grateful  ?  But 
Mr.  Quiverful  had  long  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Harding, 
and  had  received  kindness  at  his  hands,  so  that  his  heart  mis- 
gave him  as  he  thought  of  supplanting  a  friend  at  the  hos- 
pital. Nevertheless,  he  was  extremely  civil,  cringingly  civil, 
to  Mr.  Slope ;  treated  him  quite  as  the  great  man ;  entreated 
this  great  man  to  do  him  the  honour  to  drink  a  glass  of 
sherry,  at  which,  as  it  was  very  poor  Marsala,  the  now  pam- 

123 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

pered  Slope  turned  up  his  nose;  and  ended  by  declaring  his 
extreme  obligation  to  the  bishop  and  Mr.  Slope,  and  his  great 
desire  to  accept  the  hospital,  if — if  it  were  certainly  the  case 
that  Mr.  Harding  had  refused  it. 

What  man,  as  needy  as  Mr.  Quiverful,  would  have  been 
more  disinterested? 

"Mr.  Harding  did  positively  refuse  it,"  said  Mr.  Slope, 
with  a  certain  air  of  offended  dignity,  "when  he  heard  of  the 
conditions  to  which  the  appointment  is  now  subjected.  Of 
course,  you  understand,  Mr.  Quiverful,  that  the  same  condi- 
tions will  be  imposed  on  yourself." 

Mr.  Quiverful  cared  nothing  for  the  conditions.  He  would 
have  undertaken  to  preach  any  number  of  sermons  Mr.  Slope 
might  have  chosen  to  dictate,  and  to  pass  every  remaining 
hour  of  his  Sundays  within  the  walls  of  a  Sunday-school. 
What  sacrifices,  or,  at  any  rate,  what  promises,  would  have 
been  too  much  to  make  for  such  an  addition  to  his  income, 
and  for  such  a  house !  But  his  mind  still  recurred  to  Mr. 
Harding. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  he;  "Mr.  Harding's  daughter  is  very 
rich,  and  why  should  he  trouble  himself  with  the  hospi- 
tal?" 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Grantly,"  said  Slope. 

"I  meant  his  widowed  daughter,"  said  the  other.  "Mrs. 
Bold  has  twelve  hundred  a  year  of  her  own,  and  I  suppose 
Mr.  Harding  means  to  live  with  her." 

"Twelve  hundred  a  year  of  her  own !"  said  Slope,  and 
very  shortly  afterwards  took  his  leave,  avoiding,  as  far  as  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  do,  any  further  allusion  to  the  hos- 
pital. Twelve  hundred  a  year,  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  rode 
slowly  home.  If  it  were  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bold  had  twelve 
hundred  a  year  of  her  own,  what  a  fool  would  he  be  to  op- 
pose her  father's  return  to  his  old  place.  The  train  of  Mr. 
Slope's  ideas  will  probably  be  plain  to  all  my  readers.  Why 
should  he  not  make  the  twelve  hundred  a  year  his  own?  and 
if  he  did  so,  would  it  not  be  well  for  him  to  have  a  father- 
in-law  comfortably  provided  with  the  good  things  of  this 
world?  would  it  not,  moreover,  be  much  more  easy  for  him 
to  gain  the  daughter,  if  he  did  all  in  his  power  to  forward 
the  father's  views? 

124 


THE   WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

These  questions  presented  themselves  to  him  in  a  very 
forcible  way,  and  yet  there  were  many  points  of  doubt.  If 
he  resolved  to  restore  to  Mr.  Harding  his  former  place,  he 
must  take  the  necessary  steps  for  doing  so  at  once ;  he  must 
immediately  talk  over  the  bishop,  quarrel  on  the  matter  with 
Mrs.  Proudie  whom  he  knew  he  could  not  talk  over,  and  let 
Mr.  Quiverful  know  that  he  had  been  a  little  too  precipitate 
as  to  Mr.  Harding's  positive  refusal.  That  he  could  effect 
all  this,  he  did  not  doubt ;  but  he  did  not  wish  to  effect  it  for 
nothing.  He  did  not  wish  to  give  way  to  Mr.  Harding, 
and  then  be  rejected  by  the  daughter.  He  did  not  wish 
to  lose  one  influential  friend  before  he  had  gained  an- 
other. 

And  thus  he  rode  home,  meditating  many  things  in  his 
mind.  It  occurred  to  him  that  Mrs.  Bold  was  sister-in-law 
to  the  archdeacon ;  and  that  not  even  for  twelve  hundred  a 
year  would  he  submit  to  that  imperious  man.  A  rich  wife 
was  a  great  desideratum  to  him,  but  success  in  his  profession 
was  still  greater;  there  were,  moreover,  other  rich  women 
who  might  be  willing  to  become  wives ;  and  after  all,  this 
twelve  hundred  a  year  might,  when  inquired  into,  melt  away 
into  some  small  sum  utterly  beneath  his  notice.  Then  also 
he  remembered  that  Mrs.  Bold  had  a  son. 

Another  circumstance  also  much  influenced  him,  though  it 
was  one  which  may  almost  be  said  to  have  influenced  him 
against  his  will.  The  vision  of  the  Signora  Neroni  was 
perpetually  before  his  eyes.  It  would  be  too  much  to  say 
that  Mr.  Slope  was  lost  in  love,  but  yet  he  thought,  and  kept 
continually  thinking,  that  he  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a 
woman.  He  was  a  man  whose  nature  was  open  to  such  im- 
pulses, and  the  wiles  of  the  Italianised  charmer  had  been 
thoroughly  successful  in  imposing  upon  his  thoughts.  We 
will  not  talk  about  his  heart :  not  that  he  had  no  heart,  but 
because  his  heart  had  little  to  do  with  his  present  feelings. 
His  taste  had  been  pleased,  his  eyes  charmed,  and  his  vanity 
gratified.  He  had  been  dazzled  by  a  sort  of  loveliness  which 
he  had  never  before  seen,  and  had  been  caught  by  an  easy, 
free,  voluptuous  manner  which  was  perfectly  new  to  him. 
He  had  never  been  so  tempted  before,  and  the  temptation  was 
now  irresistible.     He  had  not  owned  to  himself  that  he  cared 

125 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

for  this  woman  more  than  for  others  around  him ;  but  yet  he 
thought  often  of  the  time  when  he  might  see  her  next,  and 
made,  almost  unconsciously,  little  cunning  plans  for  seeing 
her  frequently. 

He  had  called  at  Dr.  Stanhope's  house  the  day  after  the 
bishop's  party,  and  then  the  warmth  of  his  admiration  had 
been  fed  with  fresh  fuel.  If  the  signora  had  been  kind  in 
her  manner  and  flattering  in  her  speech  when  lying  upon  the 
bishop's  sofa,  with  the  eyes  of  so  many  on  her,  she  had  been 
much  more  so  in  her  mother's  drawing-room,  with  no  one 
present  but  her  sister  to  repress  either  her  nature  or  her  art. 
Mr.  Slope  had  thus  left  her  quite  bewildered  and  could  not 
willingly  admit  into  his  brain  any  scheme,  a  part  of  which 
would  be  the  necessity  of  his  abandoning  all  further  special 
friendship  with  this  lady. 

And  so  he  slowly  rode  along  very  meditative. 

And  here  the  author  must  beg  it  to  be  remembered  that 
Mr.  Slope  was  not  in  all  things  a  bad  man.  His  motives, 
like  those  of  most  men,  were  mixed ;  and  though  his  conduct 
was  generally  very  different  from  that  which  we  would  wish 
to  praise,  it  was  actuated  perhaps  as  often  as  that  of  the  ma- 
jority of  the  world  by  a  desire  to  do  his  duty.  He  believed 
in  the  religion  which  he  taught,  harsh,  unpalatable,  unchar- 
itable as  that  religion  was.  He  believed  those  whom  he 
wished  to  get  under  his  hoof,  the  Grantlys  and  Gwynnes  of 
the  church,  to  be  the  enemies  of  that  religion.  He  believed 
himself  to  be  a  pillar  of  strength,  destined  to  do  great  things ; 
and  with  that  subtle,  selfish,  ambiguous  sophistry  to  which 
the  minds  of  all  men  are  so  subject,  he  had  taught  himself  to 
think  that  in  doing  much  for  the  promotion  of  his  own  inter- 
ests he  was  doing  much  also  for  the  promotion  of  religion. 
But  Mr.  Slope  had  never  been  an  immoral  man.  Indeed,  he 
had  resisted  temptations  to  immorality  with  a  strength  of 
purpose  that  was  creditable  to  him.  He  had  early  in  life 
devoted  himself  to  works  which  were  not  compatible  with 
the  ordinary  pleasures  of  youth,  and  he  had  abandoned  such 
pleasures  not  without  a  struggle.  It  must  therefore  be  con- 
ceived that  he  did  not  admit  to  himself  that  he  warmly  ad- 
mired the  beauty  of  a  married  woman  without  heartfelt 
stings  of  conscience;  and  to  pacify  that  conscience,  he  had 

126 


THE    WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

to  teach  himself  that  the  nature  of  his  admiration  was 
innocent. 

And  thus  he  rode  along  meditative  and  ill  at  ease.  His 
conscience  had  not  a  word  to  say  against  his  choosing  the 
widow  and  her  fortune.  That  he  looked  upon  as  a  godly 
work  rather  than  otherwise ;  as  a  deed  which,  if  carried 
through,  would  redound  to  his  credit  as  a  Christian.  On 
that  side  lay  no  future  remorse,  no  conduct  which  he  might 
probably  have  to  forget,  no  inward  stings.  If  it  should  turn 
out  to  be  really  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bold  had  twelve  hundred 
a  year  at  her  own  disposal,  Mr.  Slope  would  rather  look  upon 
it  as  a  duty  which  he  owed  his  religion  to  make  himself  the 
master  of  the  wife  and  the  money ;  as  a  duty,  too,  in  which 
some  amount  of  self-sacrifice  would  be  necessary.  He  would 
have  to  give  up  his  friendship  with  the  signora,  his  resist- 
ance to  Mr.  Harding,  his  antipathy — no,  he  found  on  mature 
self-examination,  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  give  up 
his  antipathy  to  Dr.  Grantly.  He  would  marry  the  lady  as 
the  enemy  of  her  brother-in-law  if  such  an  arrangement  suit- 
ed her;  if  not,  she  must  look  elsewhere  for  a  husband. 

It  was  with  such  resolve  as  this  that  he  reached  Barches- 
ter.  He  would  at  once  ascertain  what  the  truth  might  be  as 
to  the  lady's  wealth,  and  having  done  this,  he  would  be  ruled 
by  circumstances  in  his  conduct  respecting  the  hospital.  If 
he  found  that  he  could  turn  round  and  secure  the  place  for 
Mr.  Harding  without  much  self-sacrifice,  he  would  do  so ; 
but  if  not,  he  would  woo  the  daughter  in  opposition  to  the 
father.  But  in  no  case  would  he  succumb  to  the  arch- 
deacon. 

He  saw  his  horse  taken  round  to  the  stable,  and  imme- 
diately went  forth  to  commence  his  inquiries.  To  give  Mr. 
Slope  his  due,  he  was  not  a  man  who  ever  let  much  grass 
grow  under  his  feet. 

Poor  Eleanor !  She  was  doomed  to  be  the  intended  victim 
of  more  schemes  than  one. 

About  the  time  that  Mr.  Slope  was  visiting  the  vicar  of 
Puddingdale,  a  discussion  took  place  respecting  her  charms 
and  wealth  at  Dr.  Stanhope's  house  in  the  close.  There  had 
been  morning  callers  there,  and  people  had  told  some  truth 
and  also  some  falsehood  respecting  the  property  which  John 

127 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Bold  had  left  behind  him.  By  degrees  the  visitors  went,  and 
as  the  doctor  went  with  them,  and  as  the  doctor's  wife  had 
not  made  her  appearance,  Charlotte  Stanhope  and  her  broth- 
er were  left  together.  He  was  sitting  idly  at  the  table, 
scrawling  caricatures  of  Barchester  notables,  then  yawning, 
then  turning  over  a  book  or  two,  and  evidently  at  a  loss  how 
to  kill  his  time  without  much  labour. 

"You  haven't  done  much,  Bertie,  about  getting  any  or- 
ders," said  his  sister. 

"Orders !"  said  he ;  "who  on  earth  is  there  at  Barchester 
to  give  one  orders?  Who  among  the  people  here  could 
possibly  think  it  worth  his  while  to  have  his  head  done  into 
marble?" 

"Then  you  mean  to  give  up  your  profession,"  said  she. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  he,  going  on  with  some  absurd  portrait 
of  the  bishop.  "Look  at  that,  Lotte ;  isn't  it  the  little  man 
all  over,  apron  and  all?  I'd  go  on  with  my  profession  at 
once,  as  you  call  it,  if  the  governor  would  set  me  up  with  a 
studio  in  London ;  but  as  to  sculpture  at  Barchester — I  sup- 
pose half  the  people  here  don't  know  what  a  torso  means." 

"The  governor  will  not  give  you  a  shilling  to  start  you  in 
London,"  said  Lotte.  "Indeed,  he  can't  give  you  what  would 
be  sufficient,  for  he  has  not  got  it.  But  you  might  start  your- 
self very  well,  if  you  pleased." 

"How  the  deuce  am  I  to  do  it?"  said  he. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Bertie,  you'll  never  make  a  penny 
by  any  profession." 

"That's  what  I  often  think  myself"  said  he,  not  in  the  least 
offended.  "Some  men  have  a  great  gift  of  making  money, 
but  they  can't  spend  it.  Others  can't  put  two  shillings  to- 
gether, but  they  have  a  great  talent  for  all  sorts  of  outlay. 
I  begin  to  think  that  my  genius  is  wholly  in  the  latter  line." 

"How  do  you  mean  to  live  then  ?"  asked  the  sister. 

"I  suppose  I  must  regard  myself  as  a  young  raven,  and 
look  for  heavenly  manna ;  besides,  we  have  all  got  something 
when  the  governor  goes." 

"Yes — you'll  have  enough  to  supply  yourself  with  gloves 
and  boots ;  that  is,  if  the  Jews  have  not  got  the  possession 
of  it  all.  I  believe  they  have  the  most  of  it  already.  I  won- 
der, Bertie,  at  your  indifference;  that  you,  with  your  talents 

128 


THE    WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

and  personal  advantages,  should  never  try  to  settle  yourself 
in  life.  I  look  forward  with  dread  to  the  time  when  the 
governor  must  go.  Mother,  and  Madeline,  and  I, — we  shall 
be  poor  enough,  but  you  will  have  absolutely  nothing." 

"Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  said  Bertie. 

"Will  you  take  my  advice?"  said  his  sister. 

"Cela  depend,"  said  the  brother. 

"Will  you  marry  a  wife  with  money?" 

"At  any  rate,"  said  he,  "I  won't  marry  one  without :  wives 
with  money  a'nt  so  easy  to  get  now-a-days ;  the  parsons  pick 
them  all  up." 

"And  a  parson  will  pick  up  the  wife  I  mean  for  you,  if  you 
do  not  look  quickly  about  it ;  the  wife  I  mean  is  Mrs. 
Bold." 

"Whew-w-w-w !"  whistled  Bertie,  "a  widow !" 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Charlotte. 

"With  a  son  and  heir  all  ready  to  my  hand,"  said  Bertie. 

"A  baby  that  will  very  likely  die,"  said  Charlotte. 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  Bertie.  "But  however,  he  may 
live  for  me — I  don't  wish  to  kill  him ;  only,  it  must  be  owned 
that  a  ready-made  family  is  a  drawback." 

"There  is  only  one  after  all,"  pleaded  Charlotte. 

"And  that  a  very  little  one,  as  the  maid-servant  said,"  re- 
joined Bertie. 

"Beggars  mustn't  be  choosers,  Bertie;  you  can't  have 
everything." 

"God  knows  I  am  not  unreasonable,"  said  he,  "nor  yet 
opinionated ;  and  if  you'll  arrange  it  all  for  me,  Lotte,  I'll 
marry  the  lady.  Only  mark  this ;  the  money  must  be  sure, 
and  the  income  at  my  own  disposal,  at  any  rate  for  the  lady's 
Hfe." 

Charlotte  was  explaining  to  her  brother  that  he  must  make 
love  for  himself  if  he  meant  to  carry  on  the  matter,  and  was 
encouraging  him  to  do  so,  by  warm  eulogiums  on  Eleanor's 
beauty,  when  the  signora  was  brought  into  the  drawing- 
room.  When  at  home,  and  subject  to  the  gaze  of  none  but 
her  own  family,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  dragged  about  by 
two  persons,  and  her  two  bearers  now  deposited  her  on  her 
sofa.  She  was  not  quite  so  grand  in  her  apparel  as  she  had 
been  at  the  bishop's  party,  but  yet  she  was  dressed  with  much 

^  129 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

care,  and  though  there  was  a  look  of  care  and  pain  about  her 
eyes,  she  was,  even  by  daylight,  extremely  beautiful. 

"Well,  Madeline;  so  I'm  going  to  be  married,"  Bertie  be- 
gan, as  soon  as  the  servants  had  withdrawn. 

"There's  no  other  foolish  thing  left,  that  you  haven't  done," 
said  Madeline,  "and  therefore  you  are  quite  right  to  try 
that." 

"Oh,  you  think  it's  a  fooHsh  thing,  do  you?"  said  he. 
"There's  Lotte  advising  me  to  marry  by  all  means.  But  on 
such  a  subject  your  opinion  ought  to  be  the  best;  you  have 
experience  to  guide  you." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Madehne,  with  a  sort  of  harsh  sadness 
in  her  tone,  which  seemed  to  say — What  is  it  to  you  if  I  am 
sad?     I  have  never  asked  your  sympathy. 

Bertie  was  sorry  when  he  saw  that  she  was  hurt  by  what 
he  said,  and  he  came  and  squatted  on  the  floor  close  before 
her  face  to  make  his  peace  with  her. 

"Come,  Mad,  I  was  only  joking;  you  know  that.  But  in 
sober  earnest,  Lotte  is  advising  me  to  marry.  She  wants  me 
to  marry  this  Mrs.  Bold.  She's  a  widow  with  lots  of  tin,  a 
fine  baby,  a  beautiful  complexion,  and  the  George  and 
Dragon  hotel  up  in  the  High  Street.  By  Jove,  Lotte,  if  I 
marry  her,  I'll  keep  the  public  house  myself — it's  just  the 
life  to  suit  me." 

"What?"  said  Madeline,  "that  vapid  swarthy  creature  in 
the  widow's  cap,  who  looked  as  though  her  clothes  had  been 
stuck  on  her  back  with  a  pitchfork !"  The  signora  never  al- 
lowed any  woman  to  be  beautiful. 

"Instead  of  being  vapid,"  said  Lotte,  "I  call  her  a  very 
lovely  woman.  She  was  by  far  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
rooms  the  other  night;  that  is,  excepting  you,  Madeline." 

Even  the  compliment  did  not  soften  the  asperity  of  the 
maimed  beauty.  "Every  woman  is  charming  according  to 
Lotte,"  she  said;  "I  never  knew  an  eye  with  so  little  true 
appreciation.  In  the  first  place,  what  woman  on  earth  could 
look  well  in  such  a  thing  as  that  she  had  on  her  head?" 

"Of  course ^he  wears  a  widow's  cap;  but  she'll  put  that  off 
when  Bertie  marries  her." 

"I  don't  see  any  of  course  in  it,"  said  Madeline.  "The 
death  of  twenty  husbands  should  not  make  me  undergo  such 

130 


THE   WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

a  penance.  It  is  as  much  a  relic  of  paganism  as  the  sacrifice 
of  a  Hindoo  woman  at  the  burning-  of  her  husband's  body. 
If  not  so  bloody,  it  is  quite  as  barbarous,  and  quite  as  use- 
less." 

"But  you  don't  blame  her  for  that,"  said  Bertie.  "She 
does  it  because  it's  the  custom  of  the  country.  People  would 
think  ill  of  her  if  she  didn't  do  it." 

"Exactly,"  said  Madeline.  "She  is  just  one  of  those  Eng- 
lish nonentities  who  would  tie  her  head  up  in  a  bag  for  three 
months  every  summer,  if  her  mother  and  her  grandmother 
had  tied  up  their  heads  before  her.  It  would  never  occur  to 
her  to  think  whether  there  was  any  use  in  submitting  to  such 
a  nuisance." 

"It's  very  hard,  in  a  country  like  England,  for  a  young 
woman  to  set  herself  in  opposition  to  prejudices  of  that  sort," 
said  the  prudent  Charlotte. 

"What  you  mean  is,  that  it's  very  hard  for  a  fool  not  to  be 
a  fool,"  said  Madeline. 

Bertie  Stanhope  had  been  so  much  knocked  about  the 
world  from  his  earliest  years,  that  he  had  not  retained  much 
respect  for  the  gravity  of  English  customs ;  but  even  to  his 
mind  an  idea  presented  itself,  that,  perhaps  in  a  wife,  true 
British  prejudice  would  not  in  the  long  run  be  less  agreeable 
than  Anglo-Italian  freedom  from  restraint.  He  did  not 
exactly  say  so,  but  he  expressed  the  idea  in  another 
way. 

"I  fancy,"  said  he,  "that  if  I  were  to  die,  and  then  walk,  I 
should  think  that  my  widow  looked  better  in  one  of  those 
caps  than  any  other  kind  of  head-dress." 

"Yes — and  you'd  fancy  also  that  she  could  do  nothing 
better  than  shut  herself  up  and  cry  for  you,  or  else  burn 
herself.  But  she  would  think  differently.  She'd  probably 
wear  one  of  those  horrid  she-helmets,  because  she'd  want  the 
courage  not  to  do  so;  but  she'd  wear  it  with  a  heart  longing 
for  the  time  when  she  might  be  allowed  to  throw  it  oflf.  I 
hate  such  shallow  false  pretences.  For  my  part,  I  would  let 
the  world  say  what  it  pleased,  and  show  no  grief  if  I  felt 
none ; — and  perhaps  not,  if  I  did." 

"But  wearing  a  widow's  cap  won't  lessen  her  fortune," 
said  Charlotte, 

131 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Or  increase  it,"  said  Madeline.  "Then  why  on  earth  does 
she  do  it?" 

"But  Lotte's  object  is  to  make  her  put  it  off,"  said  Bertie. 

"If  it  be  true  that  she  has  got  twelve  hundred  a  year  quite 
at  her  own  disposal,  and  she  be  not  utterly  vulgar  in  her 
manners,  I  would  advise  you  to  marry  her.  I  dare  say  she 
is  to  be  had  for  the  asking :  and  as  you  are  not  going  to 
marry  her  for  love,  it  doesn't  much  matter  whether  she  is 
good-looking  or  not.  As  to  your  really  marrying  a  woman 
for  love,  I  don't  believe  you  are  fool  enough  for  that." 

"Oh,  Madeline !"  exclaimed  her  sister. 

"And  oh,  Charlotte !"  said  the  other. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  no  man  can  love  a  woman 
unless  he  be  a  fool?" 

"I  mean  very  much  the  same  thing, — that  any  man  who  is 
willing  to  sacrifice  his  interest  to  get  possession  of  a  pretty 
face  is  a  fool.  Pretty  faces  are  to  be  had  cheaper  than  that. 
I  hate  your  mawkish  sentimentality,  Lotte.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  in  what  way  husbands  and  wives  generally  live 
together;  you  know  how  far  the  warmth  of  conjugal  affec- 
tion can  withstand  the  trial  of  a  bad  dinner,  of  a  rainy  day, 
or  of  the  least  privation  which  poverty  brings  with  it ;  you 
know  what  freedom  a  man  claims  for  himself,  what  slavery 
he  would  exact  from  his  wife  if  he  could !  And  you  know 
also  how  wives  generally  obey.  Marriage  means  tyranny  on 
one  side  and  deceit  on  the  other.  I  say  that  a  man  is  a  fool 
to  sacrifice  his  interests  for  such  a  bargain.  A  woman,  too 
generally,  has  no  other  way  of  living." 

"But  Bertie  has  no  other  way  of  living,"  said  Charlotte. 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  let  him  marry  Mrs.  Bold,"  said 
Madeline.     And  so  it  was  settled  between  them. 

But  let  the  gentle-hearted  reader  be  under  no  apprehen- 
sion whatsoever.  It  is  not  destined  that  Eleanor  shall  marry 
Mr.  Slope  or  Bertie  Stanhope.  And  here,  perhaps,  it  may 
be  allowed  to  the  "ovelist  to  explain  his  views  on  a  very 
important  point  in  the  art  of  telling  tales.  He  ventures  to 
reprobate  that  system  which  goes  so  far  to  violate  all  proper 
confidence  between  the  author  and  his  readers,  by  maintain- 
ing nearly  to  the  end  of  the  third  volume  a  mystery  as  to 
the  fate  of  their  favourite  personage.     Nay,  more,  and  worse 

132 


THE   WIDOW'S    SUITORS. 

than  this,  is  too  frequently  done.  Have  not  often  the  pro- 
foiindest  efforts  of  genius  been  used  to  baffle  the  aspirations 
of  the  reader,  to  raise  false  hopes  and  false  fears,  and  to 
give  rise  to  expectations  which  are  never  to  be  realised? 
Are  not  promises  all  but  made  of  delightful  horrors,  in  lieu 
of  which  the  writer  produces  nothing  but  most  commonplace 
realities  in  his  final  chapter?  And  is  there  not  a  species  of 
deceit  in  this  to  which  the  honesty  of  the  present  age  should 
lend  no  countenance? 

And  what  can  be  the  worth  of  that  solicitude  which  a  peep 
into  the  third  volume  can  utterly  dissipate?  What  the  value 
of  those  literary  charms  which  are  absolutely  destroyed  by 
their  enjoyment?  When  we  have  once  learnt  what  was  that 
picture  before  which  was  hung  Mrs.  Ratclifife's  solemn  cur- 
tain, we  feel  no  further  interest  about  either  the  frame  or  the 
veil.  They  are  to  us  merely  a  receptacle  for  old  bones,  an 
inappropriate  coffin,  which  we  would  wish  to  have  decently 
buried  out  of  our  sight. 

And  then,  how  grievous  a  thing  it  is  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  your  novel  destroyed  by  the  ill-considered  triumph  of  a 
previous  reader.  "Oh,  you  needn't  be  alarmed  for  Augusta, 
of  course  she  accepts  Gustavus  in  the  end."  "How  very  ill- 
natured  you  are,  Susan,"  says  Kitty,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
"I  don't  care  a  bit  about  it  now."  Dear  Kitty,  if  you  will 
read  my  book,  you  may  defy  the  ill-nature  of  your  sister. 
There  shall  be  no  secret  that  she  can  tell  you.  Nay,  take  the 
last  chapter  if  you  please — learn  from  its  pages  all  the  results 
of  our  troubled  story,  and  the  story  shall  have  lost  none  of  its 
interest,  if  indeed  there  be  any  interest  in  it  to  lose. 

Our  doctrine  is,  that  the  author  and  the  reader  should 
move  along  together  in  full  confidence  with  each  other.  Let 
the  personages  of  the  drama  undergo  ever  so  complete  a 
comedy  of  errors  among  themselves,  but  let  the  spectator 
never  mistake  the  Syracusan  for  the  Ephesian ;  otherwise  he 
is  one  of  the  dupes,  and  the  part  of  a  dupe  is  never  dignified. 

I  would  not  for  the  value  of  this  chapter  have  it  believed 
by  a  single  reader  that  my  Eleanor  could  bring  herself  to 
marry  Mr.  Slope,  or  that  she  should  be  sacrificed  to  a  Bertie 
Stanhope.  But  among  the  good  folk  of  Barchester  many 
believed  both  the  one  and  the  other. 

133 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

BABY    WORSHIP. 

DIDDLE,  diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  dum,  dum,  duni,"  said 
or  sung  Eleanor  Bold. 

"Diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  dum,  dum,  dum,"  continued 
Mary  Bold,  taking  up  the  second  part  in  this  concerted  piece. 

The  only  audience  at  the  concert  was  the  baby,  who  how- 
ever gave  such  vociferous  applause,  that  the  performers,  pre- 
suming it  to  amount  to  an  encore,  commenced  again. 

"Diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  dum,  dum,  dum :  hasn't  he 
got  lovely  legs?"  said  the  rapturous  mother. 

"H'm  'm  'm  'm  'm,"  simmered  Mary,  burying  her  lips  in 
the  little  fellow's  fat  neck,  by  way  of  kissing  him. 

"H'm  'm  'm  'm  'm,"  simmered  the  mamma,  burying  her 
lips  also  in  his  fat  round  short  legs.  "He's  a  dawty  little 
bold  darling,  so  he  is ;  and  he  has  the  nicest  little  pink  legs 
in  all  the  world,  so  he  has ;"  and  the  simmering  and  the  kiss- 
ing went  on  over  again,  and  as  though  the  ladies  were  very 
hungry,  and  determined  to  eat  him. 

"Well,  then,  he's  his  own  mother's  own  darling:  well,  he 
shall — oh,  oh — Mary,  Mary — did  you  ever  see?  What  am  I 
to  do?  My  naughty,  naughty,  naughty,  naughty  little 
Johnny."  All  these  energetic  exclamations  were  elicited  by 
the  delight  of  the  mother  in  finding  that  her  son  was  strong 
enough,  and  mischievous  enough,  to  pull  all  her  hair  out 
from  under  her  cap.  "He's  been  and  pulled  down  all  mam- 
ma's hair,  and  he's  the  naughtiest,  naughtiest,  naughtiest  lit- 
tle man  that  ever,  ever,  ever,  ever,  ever " 

A  regular  service  of  baby  worship  was  going  on.  Mary 
Bold  was  sitting  on  a  low  easy  chair,  with  the  boy  in  her  lap, 
and  Eleanor  was  kneeling  before  the  object  of  her  idolatry. 
As  she  tried  to  cover  up  the  little  fellow's  face  with  her  long, 
glossy,  dark  brown  locks,  and  permitted  him  to  pull  them 
hither  and  thither,  as  he  would,  she  looked  very  beautiful  in 
spite  of  the  widow's  cap  which  she  still  wore.  There  was  a 
quiet,  enduring,  grateful  sweetness  about  her  face,  which 
grew  so  strongly  upon  those  who  knew  her,  as  to  make  the 

134 


BABY    WORSHIP. 

great  praise  of  her  beauty  which  came  from  her  old  friends 
appear  marvellously  exaggerated  to  those  who  were  only 
slightly  acquainted  with  her.  Her  loveliness  was  like  that  of 
many  landscapes,  which  require  to  be  often  seen  to  be  fully 
enjoyed.  There  was  a  depth  of  dark  clear  brightness  in  her 
eyes  which  was  lost  upon  a  quick  observer,  a  character  about 
her  mouth  which  only  showed  itself  to  those  with  whom  she 
familiarly  conversed,  a  glorious  form  of  head  the  perfect 
symmetry  of  which  required  the  eye  of  an  artist  for  its  appre- 
ciation. She  had  none  of  that  dazzling  brilliancy,  of  that 
voluptuous  Rubens  beauty,  of  that  pearly  whiteness,  anfl 
those  vermilion  tints,  which  immediately  entranced  with  the 
power  of  a  basilisk  men  who  came  within  reach  of  Madeline 
Neroni.  It  was  all  but  impossible  to  resist  the  signora,  but 
no  one  was  called  upon  for  any  resistance  towards  Eleanor. 
You  might  begin  to  talk  to  her  as  though  she  were  your  sis- 
ter, and  it  would  not  be  till  your  head  was  on  your  pillow, 
that  the  truth  and  intensity  of  her  beauty  would  flash  upon 
you ;  that  the  sweetness  of  her  voice  would  come  upon  your 
ear.  A  sudden  half-hour  with  the  Neroni  was  like  falling 
into  a  pit ;  an  evening  spent  with  Eleanor  like  an  unexpected 
ramble  in  some  quiet  fields  of  asphodel. 

"We'll  cover  him  up  till  there  sha'n't  be  a  morsel  of  his 
little  'ittle  'ittle  'ittle  nose  to  be  seen,"  said  the  mother,  stretch- 
ing her  streaming  locks  over  the  infant's  face.  The  child 
screamed  with  delight,  and  kicked  till  Mary  Bold  was  hardly 
able  to  hold  him. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Slope  was  an- 
nounced. Up  jumped  Eleanor,  and  with  a  sudden  quick  mo- 
tion of  her  hands  pushed  back  her  hair  over  her  shoulders. 
It  would  have  been  perhaps  better  for  her  that  she  had  not, 
for  she  thus  showed  more  of  her  confusion  than  she  would 
have  done  had  she  remained  as  she  was.  Mr.  Slope,  how- 
ever, immediately  recognised  her  loveliness,  and  thought  to 
himself,  that  irrespective  of  her  fortune,  she  would  be  an  in- 
mate that  a  man  might  well  desire  for  his  house,  a  partner 
for  his  bosom's  care  very  well  qualified  to  make  care  lie  easy. 
Eleanor  hurried  out  of  the  room  to  re-adjust  her  cap,  mutter- 
ing some  unnecessary  apology  about  her  baby.  And  while 
she  is  gone,  we  will  briefly  go  back  and  state  what  had  been 

135 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

hitherto  the  resuhs  of  Mr,  Slope's  meditations  on  his  scheme 
of  matrimony. 

His  inquiries  as  to  the  widow's  income  had  at  any  rate  been 
so  far  successful  as  to  induce  him  to  determine  to  go  on  with 
the  speculation.  As  regarded  Mr.  Harding,  he  had  also  re- 
solved to  do  what  he  could  without  injury  to  himself.  To 
Mrs.  Proudie  he  determined  not  to  speak  on  the  matter,  at 
least  not  at  present.  His  object  was  to  instigate  a  little  re- 
bellion on  the  part  of  the  bishop.  He  thought  that  such  a 
state  of  things  would  be  advisable  not  only  in  respect  to 
Messrs.  Harding  and  Quiverful,  but  also  in  the  affairs  of  the 
diocese  generally.  Mr.  Slope  was  by  no  means  of  opinion 
that  Dr.  Proudie  was  fit  to  rule,  but  he  conscientiously 
thought  it  wrong  that  his  brother  clergy  should  be  subjected 
to  petticoat  government.  He  therefore  made  up  his  mind  to 
infuse  a  little  of  his  spirit  into  the  bishop,  sufficient  to  induce 
him  to  oppose  his  wife,  though  not  enough  to  make  him  alto- 
gether insubordinate. 

He  had  therefore  taken  an  opportunity  of  again  speaking 
to  his  lordship  about  the  hospital,  and  had  endeavoured  to 
make  it  appear  that  after  all  it  would  be  unwise  to  exclude 
Mr.  Harding  from  the  appointment.  Mr.  Slope,  however, 
had  a  harder  task  than  he  had  imagined.  Mrs.  Proudie,  anx- 
ious to  assume  to  herself  as  much  as  possible  of  the  merit  of 
patronage,  had  written  to  Mrs.  Quiverful,  requesting  her  to 
call  at  the  palace ;  and  had  then  explained  to  that  matron, 
with  much  mystery,  condescension,  and  dignity,  the  good  that 
was  in  store  for  her  and  her  progeny.  Indeed  Mrs.  Proudie 
had  been  so  engaged  at  the  very  time  that  Mr.  Slope  had  been 
doing  the  same  with  the  husband  at  Puddingdale  Vicarage, 
and  had  thus  in  a  measure  committed  herself.  The  thanks. 
the  humility,  the  gratitude,  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Quiverful 
had  been  very  overpowering;  she  had  all  but  embraced  the 
knees  of  her  patroness,  and  had  promised  that  the  prayers  of 
fourteen  unprovided  babes  (so  Mrs.  Quiverful  had  described 
her  own  family,  the  eldest  of  which  was  a  stout  young 
woman  of  three-and-twenty)  should  be  put  up  to  heaven 
morning  and  evening  for  the  munificent  friend  whom  God 
had  sent  to  them.  Such  incense  as  this  was  not  unpleasing 
to  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  she  made  the  most  of  it.     She  offered 

136 


BABY    WORSHIP. 

her  general  assistance  to  the  fourteen  unprovided  babes,  if, 
as  she  had  no  doubt,  she  should  find  them  worthy ;  expressed 
a  hope  that  the  eldest  of  them  would  be  fit  to  undertake 
tuition  in  her  Sabbath  schools,  and  altogether  made  herself 
a  very  great  lady  in  the  estimation  of  iMrs.  Quiverful. 

Having  done  this,  she  thought  it  prudent  to  drop  a  few 
words  before  the  bishop,  letting  him  know  that  she  had  ac- 
quainted the  Puddingdale  family  with  their  good  fortune ;  so 
that  he  might  perceive  that  he  stood  committed  to  the  ap- 
pointment. The  husband  well  understood  the  ruse  of  his 
wife,  but  he  did  not  resent  it.  He  knew  that  she  was  taking 
the  patronage  out  of  his  hands ;  he  was  resolved  to  put  an  end 
to  her  interference,  and  re-assume  his  powers.  But  then  he 
thought  this  was  not  the  best  time  to  do  it.  He  put  off  the 
evil  hour,  as  many  a  man  in  similar  circumstances  has  done 
before  him. 

Such  having  been  the  case,  Mr.  Slope  naturally  encoun- 
tered a  difficulty  in  talking  over  the  bishop,  a  difficulty  indeed 
which  he  found  could  not  be  overcome  except  at  the  cost  of 
a  general  outbreak  at  the  palace.  A  general  outbreak  at  the 
present  moment  might  be  good  policy,  but  it  also  might  not. 
It  was  at  any  rate  not  a  step  to  be  lightly  taken.  He  began 
by  whispering  to  the  bishop  that  he  feared  that  public  opinion 
would  be  against  him  if  Mr.  Harding  did  not  reappear  at  the 
hospital.  The  bishop  answered  with  some  warmth  that  Mr. 
Quiverful  had  been  promised  the  appointment  on  Mr.  Slope's 
advice.  "Not  promised !"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "Yes,  promised," 
replied  the  bishop,  "and  Mrs.  Proudie  has  seen  Mrs.  Quiver- 
ful on  the  subject."  This  was  quite  unexpected  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Slope,  but  his  presence  of  mind  did  not  fail  him,  and 
he  turned  the  statement  to  his  own  account. 

"Ah,  my  lord,"  said  he,  "we  shall  all  be  in  scrapes  if  the 
ladies  interfere." 

This  was  too  much  in  unison  with  my  lord's  feelings  to  be 
altogether  unpalatable,  and  yet  such  an  allusion  to  interfer- 
ence demanded  a  rebuke.  My  lord  was  somewhat  astounded 
also,  though  not  altogether  made  miserable,  by  finding  that 
there  was  a  point  of  difference  between  his  wife  and  his 
chaplain. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  interference,"  said  the 

^37 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

bishop  mildly.  "When  Mrs.  Proudie  heard  that  Mr.  Quiver- 
ful was  to  be  appointed,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  she  should 
wish  to  see  Mrs.  Quiverful  about  the  schools.  I  really  can- 
not say  that  I  see  any  interference." 

"I  only  speak,  my  lord,  for  your  own  comfort,"  said  Slope ; 
"for  your  own  comfort  and  dignity  in  the  diocese.  I  can 
have  no  other  motive.  As  far  as  personal  feelings  go,  Mrs. 
Proudie  is  the  best  friend  I  have.  I  must  always  remember 
that.  But  still,  in  my  present  position,  my  first  duty  is  to 
your  lordship." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Slope,  I  am  quite  sure  of  that;" 
said  the  bishop  mollified :  "and  you  really  think  that  Mr. 
Harding  should  have  the  hospital?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I'm  inclined  to  think  so.  I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  take  upon  myself  the  blame  of  first  suggesting  Mr. 
Quiverful's  name.  But  since  doing  so,  I  have  found  that 
there  is  so  strong  a  feeling  in  the  diocese  in  favour  of  Mr. 
Harding,  that  I  think  your  lordship  should  give  way.  I  hear 
also  that  Mr.  Harding  has  modified  the  objections  he  first  felt 
to  your  lordship's  propositions.  And  as  to  what  has  passed 
between  Mrs.  Proudie  and  Mrs.  Quiverful,  the  circumstance 
may  be  a  little  inconvenient,  but  I  really  do  not  think  that  that 
should  weigh  in  a  matter  of  so  much  moment." 

And  thus  the  poor  bishop  was  left  in  a  dreadfully  unde- 
cided state  as  to  what  he  should  do.  His  mind,  however, 
shghtly  inclined  itself  to  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Harding, 
seeing  that  by  such  a  step  he  should  have  the  assistance  of 
Mr.  Slope  in  opposing  Mrs.  Proudie. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  palace,  when  Mr.  Slope 
called  at  Mrs.  Bold's  house,  and  found  her  playing  with  her 
baby.  When  she  ran  out  of  the  room,  Mr.  Slope  began 
praising  the  weather  to  Mary  Bold,  then  he  praised  the  baby 
and  kissed  him,  and  then  he  praised  the  mother,  and  then  he 
praised  Miss  Bold  herself.  Mrs.  Bold,  however,  was  not 
long  before  she  came  back. 

"I  have  to  apologise  for  calling  at  so  very  early  an  hour," 
began  Mr.  Slope,  "but  I  was  really  so  anxious  to  speak  to  you 
that  I  hope  you  and  Miss  Bold  will  excuse  me." 

Eleanor  muttered  something  in  which  the  words  "cer- 
tainly," and  "of  course,"  and  "not  early  at  all,"  were  just 

138 


BABY   WORSHIP. 

audible,  and  then  apologised  for  her  own  appearance,  declar- 
ing with  a  smile  that  her  baby  was  becoming  such  a  big  boy 
that  he  was  quite  unmanageable. 

"He's  a  great  big  naughty  boy,"  said  she  to  the  child ;  "and 
we  must  send  him  away  to  a  great  big  rough  romping  school, 
where  they  have  great  big  rods,  and  do  terrible  things  to 
naughty  boys  who  don't  do  what  their  own  mammas  tell 
them ;"  and  she  then  commenced  another  course  of  kissing, 
being  actuated  thereto  by  the  terrible  idea  of  sending  her 
child  away  which  her  own  imagination  had  depicted. 

"And  where  the  masters  don't  have  such  beautiful  long 
hair  to  be  dishevelled,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  taking  up  the  joke 
and  paying  a  compliment  at  the  same  time. 

Eleanor  thought  he  might  as  well  have  left  the  compliment 
alone ;  but  she  said  nothing  and  looked  nothing,  being  occu- 
pied as  she  was  with  the  baby. 

"Let  me  take  him,"  said  Mary.  "His  clothes  are  nearly 
off  his  back  with  his  romping,"  and  so  saying  she  left  the 
room  with  the  child.  Miss  Bold  had  heard  Mr.  Slope  say 
he  had  something  pressing  to  say  to  Eleanor,  and  thinking 
that  she  might  be  de  trop,  took  this  opportunity  of  getting 
herself  out  of  the  room. 

"Don't  be  long,  Mary,"  said  Eleanor,  as  Miss  Bold  shut 
the  door. 

"I  am  glad,  Mrs.  Bold,  to  have  the  opportunity  of  having 
ten  minutes'  conversation  with  you  alone,"  began  Mr.  Slope. 
"Will  you  let  me  openly  ask  you  a  plain  question?" 

"Certainly,"  said  she. 

"And  I  am  sure  you  will  give  me  a  plain  and  open 
answer?" 

"Either  that  or  none  at  all,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"My  question  is  this,  Mrs.  Bold;  is  your  father  really  anx- 
ious to  go  back  to  the  hospital  ?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?"  said  she.  "Why  don't  you  ask 
himself?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Bold.  I'll  tell  you  why.  There  are  wheels 
within  wheels,  all  of  which  I  would  explain  to  you,  only  I 
fear  that  there  is  not  time.  It  is  essentially  necessary  that  I 
should  have  an  answer  to  this  question,  otherwise  I  cannot 
know  how  to  advance  your  father's  wishes ;  and  it  is  quite 

139 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

impossible  that  I  should  ask  himself.  No  one  can  esteem 
your  father  more  than  I  do,  but  I  doubt  if  this  feeling  is  re- 
ciprocal." It  certainly  was  not.  "I  must  be  candid  with 
you  as  the  only  means  of  avoiding  ultimate  consequences, 
which  may  be  most  injurious  to  Mr.  Harding.  I  fear  there 
is  a  feeling,  I  will  not  even  call  it  a  prejudice,  with  regard 
to  myself  in  Barchester,  which  is  not  in  my  favour.  You 
remember  that  sermon " 

"Oh !  Mr.  Slope,  we  need  not  go  back  to  that,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"For  one  moment,  Mrs.  Bold.  It  is  not  that  I  may  talk  of 
myself,  but  because  it  is  so  essential  that  you  should  under- 
stand how  matters  stand.  That  sermon  may  have  been  ill- 
judged, — it  was  certainly  misunderstood;  but  I  will  say  noth- 
ing about  that  now;  only  this,  that  it  did  give  rise  to  a  feeling 
against  myself  which  your  father  shares  with  others.  It 
may  be  that  he  has  proper  cause,  but  the  result  is  that  he  is 
not  inclined  to  meet  me  on  friendly  terms.  I  put  it  to  your- 
self whether  you  do  not  know  this  to  be  the  cas'e." 

Eleanor  made  no  answer,  and  Mr.  Slope,  in  the  eagerness 
of  his  address,  edged  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  the  widow's 
seat,  unperceived  by  her. 

"Such  being  so,"  continued  Mr.  Slope,  "I  cannot  ask  him 
this  question  as  I  can  ask  it  of  you.  In  spite  of  my  delin- 
quencies since  I  came  to  Barchester  you  have  allowed  me  to 
regard  you  as  a  friend."  Eleanor  made  a  little  motion  with 
her  head  which  was  hardly  confirmatory ;  bvit  Mr.  Slope,  if 
he  noticed  it,  did  not  appear  to  do  so.  "To  you  I  can  speak 
openly,  and  explain  the  feelings  of  my  heart.  This  your  fa- 
ther would  not  allow.  Unfortunately  the  bishop  has  thought 
it  right  that  this  matter  of  the  hospital  should  pass  through 
my  hands.  There  have  been  some  details  to  get  up  with 
which  he  would  not  trouble  himself,  and  thus  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  I  was  forced  to  have  an  interview  with  your  father 
on  the  matter." 

"I  am  aware  of  that."  said  Eleanor. 

"Of  course,"  said  he.  "In  that  interview  Mr.  Harding  left 
the  impression  on  my  mind  that  he  did  not  wish  to  return  to 
the  hospital." 

"How  could  that  be?"  said  Eleanor,  at  last  stirred  up  to 

140 


BABY    WORSHIP. 

forget  the  cold  propriety  of  demeanour  which  she  had  deter- 
mined to  maintain. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Bold,  I  give  you  my  word  that  such  was 
the  case,"  said  he,  again  getting  a  Httle  nearer  to  her.  "And 
what  is  more  than  that,  before  my  interview  with  Mr.  Hard- 
ing, certain  persons  at  the  palace,  I  do  not  mean  the  bishop, 
had  told  me  that  such  was  the  fact.  I  own,  I  hardly  believed 
it;  I  own,  I  thought  that  your  father  would  wish  on  every 
account,  for  conscience'  sake,  for  the  sake  of  those  old  men, 
for  old  association,  and  the  memory  of  dear  days  long  gone 
by,  on  every  account  I  thought  that  he  would  wish  to  resume 
his  duties.  But  I  was  told  that  such  was  not  his  wish;  and 
he  certainly  left  me  with  the  impression  that  I  had  been  told 
the  truth." 

"Well !"  said  Eleanor,  now  sufficiently  roused  on  the  mat- 
ter. 

"I  hear  Miss  Bold's  step,"  said  Mr.  Slope;  "would  it  be 

asking  too  great  a  favour  to  beg  you  to 1  know  you  can 

manage  anything  with  Miss  Bold." 

Eleanor  did  not  like  the  word  manage,  but  still  she  went 
out,  and  asked  Mary  to  leave  them  alone  for  another  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Bold, — I  am  so  very  grateful  for  this 
confidence.  Well,  I  left  your  father  with  this  impression. 
Indeed,  I  may  say  that  he  made  me  understand  that  he  de- 
clined the  appointment." 

"Not  the  appointment,"  said  Eleanor.  "I  am  sure  he  did 
not  decline  the  appointment.  But  he  said  that  he  would  not 
agree, — that  is,  that  he  did  not  like  the  scheme  about  the 
schools  and  the  services,  and  all  that.  I  am  quite  sure  he 
never  said  that  he  wished  to  refuse  the  place." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Bold !"  said  Mr.  Slope,  in  a  manner  almost  im- 
passioned. "I  would  not,  for  the  world,  say  to  so  good  a 
daughter  a  word  against  so  good  a  father.  But  you  must, 
for  his  sake,  let  me  show  you  exactly  how  the  matter  stands 
at  present.  Mr.  Harding  was  a  little  flurried  when  I  told 
him  of  the  bishop's  wishes  about  the  school.  I  did  so,  per- 
haps, with  the  less  caution  because  you  yourself  had  so  per- 
fectly agreed  with  me  on  the  same  subject.  He  was  a  little 
put  out  and  spoke  warmly.     'Tell  the  bishop,'  said  he,  'that  I 

141 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

quite  disagree  with  him, — and  shall  not  return  to  the  hos- 
pital, as  such  conditions  are  attached  to  it.'  What  he  said 
was  to  that  effect;  indeed,  his  words  were,  if  anything, 
stronger  than  those.  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  repeat  them 
to  his  lordship,  who  said  that  he  could  look  on  them  in  no 
other  light  than  a  refusal.  He  also  had  heard  the  report  that 
your  father  did  not  wish  for  the  appointment,  and  putting  all 
these  things  together,  he  thought  he  had  no  choice  but  to  look 
for  some  one  else.  He  has  consequently  offered  the  place  to 
Mr.  Quiverful." 

"Offered  the  place  to  Mr.  Quiverful !"  repeated  Eleanor, 
her  eyes  suffused  with  tears.  "Then,  Mr.  Slope,  there  is  an 
end  of  it." 

"No,  my  friend — not  so,"  said  he.  "It  is  to  prevent  such 
being  the  end  of  it  that  I  am  now  here.  I  may  at  any  rate 
presume  that  I  have  got  an  answer  to  my  question,  and  that 
Mr.  Harding  is  desirous  of  returning." 

"Desirous  of  returning — of  course  he  is,"  said  Eleanor ; 
"of  course  he  wishes  to  have  back  his  house  and  his  income, 
and  his  place  in  the  world ;  to  have  back  what  he  gave  up 
with  such  self-denying  honesty,  if  he  can  have  them  without 
restraints  on  his  conduct  to  which  at  his  age  it  would  be  im- 
possible that  he  should  submit.  How  can  the  bishop  ask  a 
man  of  his  age  to  turn  schoolmaster  to  a  pack  of  chil- 
dren?" 

"Out  of  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  laughing  slightly ; 
"of  course  no  such  demand  shall  be  made  on  your  father.  I 
can  at  any  rate  promise  you  that  I  will  not  be  the  medium  of 
any  so  absurd  a  requisition.  We  wished  your  father  to  preach 
in  the  hospital,  as  the  inmates  may  naturally  be  too  old  to 
leave  it;  but  even  that  shall  not  be  insisted  on.  We  wished 
also  to  attach  a  Sabbath-day  school  to  the  hospital,  thinking 
that  such  an  establishment  could  not  but  be  useful  under  the 
surveillance  of  so  good  a  clergyman  as  Mr.  Harding,  and  also 
under  your  own.  But,  dear  Mrs.  Bold :  we  won^t  talk  of 
these  things  now.  One  thing  is  clear ;  we  must  do  what 
we  can  to  annul  this  rash  offer  the  bishop  has  made  to  Mr. 
Quiverful.  Your  father  wouldn't  see  Quiverful,  would  he? 
Quiverful  is  an  honourable  man,  and  would  not,  for  a  mo- 
ment, stand  in  your  father's  way." 

142 


BABY   WORSHIP. 

"What?"  said  Eleanor;  "ask  a  man  with  fourteen  children 
to  give  up  his  preferment !  I  am  quite  sure  he  will  do  no 
such  thing!" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Slope;  and  he  again  drew  near  to 
Mrs.  Bold,  so  that  now  they  were  very  close  to  each  other. 
Eleanor  did  not  think  much  about  it,  but  instinctively  moved 
away  a  little.  How  greatly  would  she  have  increased  the 
distance  could  she  have  guessed  what  had  been  said  about  her 
at  Plumstead !  "I  suppose  not.  But  it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion that  Quiverful  should  supersede  your  father, — quite  out 
of  the  question.  The  bishop  has  been  too  rash.  An  idea 
occurs  to  me,  which  may,  perhaps,  with  God's  blessing,  put 
us  right.  My  dear  Mrs.  Bold,  would  you  object  to  seeing 
the  bishop  yourself?" 

"Why  should  not  my  father  see  him?"  said  Eleanor.  She 
had  once  before  in  her  life  interfered  in  her  father's  affairs, 
and  then  not  to  much  advantage.  She  was  older  now,  and 
felt  that  she  should  take  no  step  in  a  matter  so  vital  to  him 
without  his  consent. 

"Why,  to  tell  the  truth,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  with  a  look  of 
sorrow,  as  though  he  greatly  bewailed  the  want  of  charity 
in  his  patron,  "the  bishop  fancies  that  he  has  cause  of  anger 
against  your  father.  I  fear  an  interview  would  lead  to  fur- 
ther ill  will." 

"Why,"  said  Eleanor,  "my  father  is  the  mildest,  the  gentlest 
man  living." 

"I  only  know,"  said  Slope,  "that  he  has  the  best  of  daugh- 
ters. So  you  would  not  see  the  bishop?  As  to  getting  an 
interview,  I  could  manage  that  for  you  without  the  slightest 
annoyance  to  yourself." 

"I  could  do  nothing,  Mr,  Slope,  without  consulting  my 
father." 

"Ah !"  said  he,  "that  would  be  useless ;  you  would 
then  only  be  your  father's  messenger.  Does  anything 
occur  to  yourself?  Something  must  be  done.  Your 
father  shall  not  be  ruined  by  so  ridiculous  a  misunder- 
standing." 

Eleanor  said  that  nothing  occurred  to  her,  but  that  it  was 
very  hard ;  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  rolled  down 
her  cheeks.     Mr.  Slope  would  have  given  much  to  have  had 

143 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

the  privilege  of  drying  them ;  but  he  had  tact  enough  to  know 
that  he  had  still  a  great  deal  to  do  before  he  could  even  hope 
for  any  privilege  with  Mrs.  Bold. 

"It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see  you  so  grieved,"  said  he. 
"But  pray  let  me  assure  you  that  your  father's  interests  shall 
not  be  sacrificed  if  it  be  possible  for  me  to  protect  them.  I 
will  tell  the  bishop  openly  what  are  the  facts.  I  will  explain 
to  him  that  he  has  hardly  the  right  to  appoint  any  other  than 
your  father,  and  will  show  him  that  if  he  does  so  he  will  be 
guilty  of  great  injustice, — and  you,  Mrs.  Bold,  you  will  have 
the  charity  at  any  rate  to  believe  this  of  me,  that  I  am  truly 
anxious  for  your  father's  welfare, — for  his  and  for  your 
own." 

The  widow  hardly  knew  what  answer  to  make.  She  was 
quite  aware  that  her  father  would  not  be  at  all  thankful  to 
Mr.  Slope;  she  had  a  strong  wish  to  share  her  father's  feel- 
ings; and  yet  she  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  Mr.  Slope 
was  very  kind.  Her  father,  who  was  generally  so  charitable 
to  all  men,  who  seldom  spoke  ill  of  any  one,  had  warned  her 
against  Mr.  Slope,  and  yet  she  did  not  know  how  to  abstain 
from  thanking  him.  What  interest  could  he  have  in  the 
matter  but  that  which  he  professed  ?  Nevertheless  there  was 
that  in  his  manner  which  even  she  distrusted.  She  felt,  she 
did  not  know  why,  that  there  was  something  about  him  which 
ought  to  put  her  on  her  guard. 

Mr.  Slope  read  all  this  in  her  hesitating  manner  just  as 
plainly  as  though  she  had  opened  her  heart  to  him.  It  was 
the  talent  of  the  man  that  he  could  so  read  the  inward  feel- 
ings of  women  with  whom  he  conversed.  He  knew  that 
Eleanor  was  doubting  him,  and  that  if  she  thanked  him  she 
would  only  do  so  because  she  could  not  help  it ;  but  yet  this 
did  not  make  him  angry  or  even  annoy  him.  Rome  was  not 
built  in  a  day. 

"I  did  not  come  for  thanks,"  continued  he,  seeing  her  hesi- 
tation ;  "and  do  not  want  them — at  any  rate  before  they  are 
merited.  But  this  I  do  want,  Mrs.  Bold,  that  I  may  make 
to  myself  friends  in  this  fold  to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to 
call  me  as  one  of  the  humblest  of  his  shepherds.  If  I  cannot 
do  so,  my  task  here  must  indeed  be  a  sad  one.  I  will  at  any 
rate  endeavour  to  deserve  them." 

144 


BABY   WORSHIP. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  she,  "you  will  soon  make  plenty  of 
friends."     She  felt  herself  obliged  to  say  something. 

"That  will  be  nothing  unless  they  are  such  as  will  sympa- 
thise with  my  feelings ;  unless  they  are  such  as  I  can  rever- 
ence and  admire — and  love.  If  the  best  and  purest  turn  away 
from  me,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  be  satisfied  with  the  friend- 
ship of  the  less  estimable.     In  such  case  I  must  live  alone." 

"Oh !  I'm  sure  you  will  not  do  that,  Mr.  Slope."  Eleanor 
meant  nothing,  but  it  suited  him  to  appear  to  think  some  spe- 
cial allusion  had  been  intended. 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Bold,  I  shall  live  alone,  quite  alone  as  far  as 
the  heart  is  concerned,  if  those  with  whom  I  yearn  to  ally 
myself  turn  away  from  me.  But  enough  of  this ;  I  have 
called  you  my  friend,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  contradict  me. 
I  trust  the  time  may  come  when  I  may  also  call  your  father 
so.  May  God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Bold,  you  and  your  darling 
boy.  And  tell  your  father  from  me  that  what  can  be  done 
for  his  interest  shall  be  done." 

And  so  he  took  his  leave,  pressing  the  widow's  hand  rather 
more  closely  than  usual.  Circumstances,  however,  seemed 
just  then  to  make  this  intelligible,  and  the  lady  did  not  feel 
called  on  to  resent  it. 

"I  cannot  understand  him,"  said  Eleanor  to  Mary  Bold,  a 
few  minutes  afterwards.  "I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  a 
good  man  or  a  bad  man — whether  he  is  true  or  false." 

"Then  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,"  said  Mary,  "and 
believe  the  best." 

"On  the  whole,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Eleanor.  "I  think  I  do 
believe  that  he  means  well — and  if  so,  it  is  a  shame  that  we 
should  revile  him,  and  make  him  miserable  while  he  is  among 
us.  But  oh,  Mary,  I  fear  papa  will  be  disappointed  in  the 
hospital." 


"  145 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 
CHAPTER   XVII. 

WHO    SHALL   BE    COCK   OF  THE   WALK? 

ALL  this  time  things  were  going  on  somewhat  uneasily  at 
JlV  the  palace.  The  hint  or  two  which  Mr.  Slope  had 
given  was  by  no  means  thrown  away  upon  the  bishop.  He 
had  a  feeling  that  if  he  ever  meant  to  oppose  the  now  almost 
unendurable  despotism  of  his  wife,  he  must  lose  no  further 
time  in  doing  so ;  that  if  he  ever  meant  to  be  himself  master 
in  his  own  diocese,  let  alone  his  own  house,  he  should  begin 
at  once.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  have  done  so  from 
the  day  of  his  consecration  than  now,  but  easier  now  than 
when  Mrs.  Proudie  should  have  succeeded  in  thoroughly 
mastering  the  diocesan  details.  Then  the  proffered  assist- 
ance of  Mr.  Slope  was  a  great  thing  for  him,  a  most  unex- 
pected and  invaluable  aid.  Hitherto  he  had  looked  on  the 
two  as  allied  forces ;  and  had  considered  that  as  allies  they 
were  impregnable.  He  had  begun  to  believe  that  his  only 
chance  of  escape  would  be  by  the  advancement  of  Mr.  Slope 
to  some  distant  and  rich  preferment.  But  now  it  seemed  that 
one  of  his  enemies,  certainly  the  least  potent  of  them,  but 
nevertheless  one  very  important,  was  willing  to  desert  his 
own  camp.  Assisted  by  Mr.  Slope  what  might  he  not  do? 
He  walked  up  and  down  his  little  study,  almost  thinking  that 
the  time  might  come  when  he  would  be  able  to  appropriate 
to  his  own  use  the  big  room  up  stairs,  in  which  his  predeces- 
sor had  always  sat. 

As  he  revolved  these  things  in  his  mind  a  note  was  brought 
to  him  from  Archdeacon  Grantly,  in  which  that  divine  begged 
his  lordship  to  do  him  the  honour  of  seeing  him  on  the  mor- 
row— would  his  lordship  have  the  kindness  to  name  an  hour? 
Dr.  Grantly's  proposed  visit  would  have  reference  to  the  re- 
appointment of  Mr.  Harding  to  the  wardenship  of  Barchester 
hospital.  The  bishop  having  read  his  note  was  informed 
that  the  archdeacon's  servant  was  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer. 

Here  at  once  a  great  opportunity  ofifered  itself  to  the  hishop 
of  acting  on  his  own  responsibility.     He  bethought  himself 

14.6 


WHO    SHALL    BE    COCK   OF    THE    WALK? 

however  of  his  new  ally,  and  rang  the  bell  for  Mr.  Slope.  It 
turned  out  that  Mr.  Slope  was  not  in  the  house;  and  then, 
greatly  daring,  the  bishop  with  his  own  unassisted  spirit 
wrote  a  note  to  the  archdeacon  saying  that  he  would  see  him, 
and  naming  an  hour  for  doing  so.  Having  watched  from 
his  study-window  that  the  messenger  got  safely  off  from 
the  premises  with  this  despatch,  he  began  to  turn  over  in  his 
mind  what  step  he  should  next  take. 

To-morrow  he  would  have  to  declare  to  the  archdeacon 
either  that  Mr.  Harding  should  have  the  appointment,  or  that 
he  should  not  have  it.  The  bishop  felt  that  he  could  not  hon- 
estly throw  over  the  Quiverfuls  without  informing  Mrs. 
Proudie,  and  he  resolved  at  last  to  brave  the  lioness  in  her 
den  and  tell  her  that  circumstances  were  such  that  it  behoved 
him  to  reappoint  Mr.  Harding.  He  did  not  feel  that  he 
should  at  all  derogate  from  his  new  courage  by  promising 
Mrs.  Proudie  that  the  very  first  piece  of  available  preferment 
at  his  disposal  should  be  given  to  Quiverful  to  atone  for  the 
injury  done  to  him.  If  he  could  mollify  the  lioness  with  such 
a  sop,  how  happy  would  he  think  his  first  efforts  to  have 
been ! 

Not  without  many  misgivings  did  he  find  himself  in  Mrs. 
Proudie's  boudoir.  He  had  at  first  thought  of  sending  for 
her.  But  it  was  not  at  all  impossible  that  she  might  choose 
to  take  such  a  message  amiss,  and  then  also  it  might  be  some 
protection  to  him  to  have  his  daughters  present  at  the  inter- 
view. He  found  her  sitting  with  her  account  books  before 
her  nibbling  the  end  of  her  pencil,  evidently  mersed  in  pecu- 
niary difficulties,  and  harassed  in  mind  by  the  multiplicity  of 
palatial  expenses,  and  the  heavy  cost  of  episcopal  grandeur. 
Her  daughters  were  around  her.  Olivia  was  reading  a 
novel,  Augusta  was  crossing  a  note  to  her  bosom  friend  in 
Baker  Street,  and  Netta  was  working  diminutive  coach 
wheels  for  the  bottom  of  a  petticoat.  If  the  bishop  could 
get  the  better  of  his  wife  in  her  present  mood,  he  would  be  a 
man  indeed.  He  might  then  consider  the  victory  his  own  for 
ever.  After  all,  in  such  cases  the  matter  between  husband 
and  wife  stands  much  the  same  as  it  does  between  two  boys 
at  the  same  school,  two  cocks  in  the  same  yard,  or  two  armies 
on  the  same  continent.     The  conqueror  once  is  generally  the 

147 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

conqueror  for  ever  after.     The  prestige  of  victory  is  every- 
thing. 

"Ahem — my  dear,"  began  the  bishop,  "if  you  are  disen- 
gaged, I  wished  to  speak  to  you."  Mrs,  Proudie  put  her 
pencil  down  carefully  at  the  point  to  which  she  had  dotted 
her  figures,  marked  down  in  her  memory  the  sum  she  had 
arrived  at,  and  then  looked  up,  sourly  enough,  into  her  help- 
mate's face.  "If  you  are  busy,  another  time  will  do  as  well," 
continued  the  bishop,  whose  courage  like  Bob  Acres'  had 
oozed  out,  now  that  he  found  himself  on  the  ground  of  battle. 

"What  is  it  about.  Bishop?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Well — it  was  about  those  Quiverfuls — but  I  see  you  are 
engaged.     Another  time  will  do  just  as  well  for  me." 

"What  about  the  Quiverfuls?  It  is  quite  understood,  I 
believe,  that  they  are  to  come  to  the  hospital.  There  is  to  be 
no  doubt  about  that,  is  there?"  and  as  she  spoke  she  kept  her 
pencil  sternly  and  vigorously  fixed  on  the  column  of  figures 
before  her. 

"Why,  my  dear,  there  is  a  difficulty,"  said  the  bishop. 

"A  difficulty!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "what  difficulty?  The 
place  has  been  promised  to  Mr.  Quiverful,  and  of  course  he 
must  have  it.  He  has  made  all  his  arrangements.  He  has 
written  for  a  curate  for  Puddingdale,  he  has  spoken  to  the 
auctioneer  about  selling  his  farm,  horses,  and  cows,  and  in  all 
respects  considers  the  place  as  his  own.  Of  course  he  must 
have  it." 

Now,  bishop,  look  well  to  thyself,  and  call  up  all  the  man- 
hood that  is  in  thee.  Think  how  much  is  at  stake.  If  now 
thou  art  not  true  to  thy  guns,  no  Slope  can  hereafter  aid  thee. 
How  can  he  who  deserts  his  own  colours  at  the  first  smell  of 
gunpowder  expect  faith  in  any  ally.  Thou  thyself  hast 
sought  the  battle-field ;  fight  out  the  battle  manfully  now  thou 
art  there.  Courage,  bishop,  courage!  Frowns  cannot  kill, 
nor  can  sharp  words  break  any  bones.  After  all  the  apron 
is  thine  own.  She  can  appoint  no  wardens,  give  away  no 
benefices,  nominate  no  chaplains,  an'  thou  art  but  true  to  thy- 
self.    Up,  man,  and  at  her  with  a  constant  heart. 

Some  little  monitor  within  the  bishop's  breast  so  addressed 
him.  But  then  there  was  another  monitor  there  which  ad- 
vised  him  differently,   and  as   follows.     Remember,  bishop, 

148 


WHO    SHALL    BE    COCK    OF    THE    WALK? 

she  is  a  woman,  and  such  a  woman  too  as  thou  well  knowest : 
a  battle  of  words  with  such  a  woman  is  the  very  mischief. 
Were  it  not  better  for  thee  to  carry  on  this  war,  if  it  must  be 
waged,  from  behind  thine  own  table  in  thine  own  study? 
Does  not  every  cock  fight  best  on  his  own  dunghill?  Thy 
daughters  also  are  here,  the  pledges  of  thy  love,  the  fruits  of 
thy  loins ;  is  it  well  that  they  should  see  thee  in  the  hour  of 
thy  victory  over  their  mother  ?  nay,  is  it  well  that  they  should 
see  thee  in  the  possible  hour  of  thy  defeat?  Besides,  hast 
thou  not  chosen  thy  opportunity  with  wonderful  little  skill, 
indeed  with  no  touch  of  that  sagacity  for  which  thou  art  fa- 
mous? Will  it  not  turn  out  that  thou  art  wrong  in  this 
matter,  and  thine  enemy  right ;  that  thou  hast  actually  pledged 
thyself  in  this  matter  of  the  hospital,  and  that  now  thou 
wouldest  turn  upon  thy  wife  because  she  requires  from  thee 
but  the  fulfilment  of  thy  promise?  Art  thou  not  a  Christian 
bishop,  and  is  not  thy  word  to  be  held  sacred  whatever  be  the 
result?  Return,  bishop,  to  thy  sanctum  on  the  lower  floor, 
and  postpone  thy  combative  propensities  for  some  occasion  in 
which  at  least  thou  mayest  fight  the  battle  against  odds  less 
tremendously  against  thee. 

All  this  passed  within  the  bishop's  bosom  while  Mrs. 
Proudie  still  sat  with  her  fixed  pencil,  and  the  figures  of  her 
sum  still  enduring  on  the  tablets  of  her  memory.  "£4  lys. 
yd."  she  said  to  herself.  "Of  course  J\Ir.  Quiverful  must 
have  the  hospital,"  she  said  out  loud  to  her  lord. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  merely  wanted  to  suggest  to  you  that 
Mr.  Slope  seems  to  think  that  if  Mr.  Harding  be  not  ap- 
pointed, public  feeling  in  the  matter  would  be  against  us,  and 
that  the  press  might  perhaps  take  it  up." 

"Mr.  Slope  seems  to  think!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  which  plainly  showed  the  bishop  that  he  was  right  in 
looking  for  a  breach  in  that  quarter.  "And  what  has  Mr. 
Slope  to  do  with  it?  I  hope,  my  lord,  you  are  not  going  to 
allow  yourself  to  be  governed  by  a  chaplain."  And  now  in 
her  eagerness  the  lady  lost  her  place  in  her  account. 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear.  Nothing  I  can  assure  you  is  less 
probable.  But  still  Mr.  Slope  may  be  useful  in  finding  how 
the  wind  blows,  and  I  really  thought  that  if  we  could  give 

something  else  as  good  to  the  Quiverfuls " 

149 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie ;  "it  would  be  years  before 
you  could  give  them  anything  else  that  could  suit  them  half 
as  well,  and  as  for  the  press  and  the  public,  and  all  that,  re- 
member there  are  two  ways  of  telling  a  story.  If  Mr.  Hard- 
ing is  fool  enough  to  tell  his  tale,  we  can  also  tell  ours.  The 
place  was  offered  to  him,  and  he  refused  it.  It  has  now  been 
given  to  some  one  else,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  At  least,  I 
should  think  so." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  rather  believe  you  are  right ;"  said  the 
bishop,  and  sneaking  out  of  the  room,  he  went  down  stairs, 
troubled  in  his  mind  as  to  how  he  should  receive  the  arch- 
deacon on  the  morrow.  He  felt  himself  not  very  well  just 
at  present ;  and  began  to  consider  that  he  might,  not  improb- 
ably, be  detained  in  his  room  the  next  morning  by  an  attack 
of  bile.  He  was,  unfortunately,  very  subject  to  bilious  an- 
noyances. 

"Mr.  Slope,  indeed!  I'll  Slope  him,"  said  the  indignant 
matron  to  her  listening  progeny.  "I  don't  know  what  has 
come  to  Mr.  Slope.  I  believe  he  thinks  he  is  to  be  Bishop  of 
Barchester  himself,  because  I've  taken  him  by  the  hand,  and 
got  your  father  to  make  him  his  domestic  chaplain." 

"He  was  always  full  of  impudence,"  said  Olivia ;  "I  told 
you  so  once  before,  mamma."  Olivia,  however,  had  not 
thought  him  too  impudent  when  once  before  he  had  pro- 
posed to  make  her  Mrs.  Slope. 

"Well,  Olivia,  I  always  thought  you  liked  him,"  said  Au- 
gusta, who  at  that  moment  had  some  grudge  against  her  sis- 
ter. "I  always  disliked  the  man,  because  I  think  him  thor- 
oughly vulgar." 

"There  you're  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie ;  "he's  not  vulgar 
at  all ;  and  what  is  more,  he  is  a  soul-stirring,  eloquent 
preacher ;  but  he  must  be  taught  to  know  his  place  if  he  is 
to  remain  in  this  house." 

"He  has  the  horridest  eyes  I  ever  saw  in  a  man's  head," 
said  Netta ;  "and  I  tell  you  what,  he's  terribly  greedy ;  did 
you  see  all  the  currant  pie  he  ate  yesterday?" 

When  Mr.  Slope  got  home  he  soon  learnt  from  the  bishop, 
as  much  from  his  manner  as  his  words,  that  Mrs.  Proudie's 
behests  in  the  matter  of  the  hospital  were  to  be  obeyed.  Dr. 
Proudie  let  fall  something  as  to  "this  occasion  only,"  and 

150 


WHO    SHALL   BE    COCK   OF   THE    WALK? 

"keeping  all  affairs  about  patronage  exclusively  in  his  own 
hands."  But  he  was  quite  decided  about  Mr.  Harding;  and 
as  Mr.  Slope  did  not  wish  to  have  both  the  prelate  and  the 
prelatess  against  him,  he  did  not  at  present  see  that  he  could 
do  anything  but  yield. 

He  merely  remarked  that  he  would  of  course  carry  out  the 
bishop's  views,  and  that  he  was  quite  sure  that  if  the  bishop 
trusted  to  his  own  judgment  things  in  the  diocese  would  cer- 
tainly be  well  ordered.  Mr.  Slope  knew  that  if  you 
hit  a  nail  on  the  head  often  enough,  it  will  penetrate  at 
last. 

He  was  sitting  alone  in  his  room  on  the  same  evening  when 
a  light  knock  was  made  on  his  door,  and  before  he  could 
answer  it  the  door  was  opened,  and  his  patroness  appeared. 
He  was  all  smiles  in  a  moment,  but  so  was  not  she  also. 
She  took,  however,  the  chair  that  was  offered  to  her,  and  thus 
began  her  expostulation  : — 

"Mr.  Slope,  I  did  not  at  all  approve  your  conduct  the 
other  night  with  that  Italian  woman.  Any  one  would  have 
thought  that  you  were  her  lover." 

"Good  gracious,  my  dear  madam,"  said  IVIr.  Slope,  with  a 
look  of  horror.     "Why,  she  is  a  married  woman." 

"That's  more  than  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "however 
she  chooses  to  pass  for  such.  But  married  or  not  married, 
such  attention  as  you  paid  to  her  was  improper.  I  cannot 
believe  that  you  would  wish  to  give  offense  in  my  drawing- 
room,  Mr.  Slope ;  but  I  owe  it  to  myself  and  my  daughters 
to  tell  you  that  I  disapprove  your  conduct." 

Mr.  Slope  opened  wide  his  huge  protruding  eyes,  and 
stared  out  of  them  with  a  look  of  well-feigned  surprise. 
"Why,  Mrs.  Proudie,"  said  he,  "I  did  but  fetch  her  some- 
thing to  eat  when  she  said  she  was  hungry." 

"And  you  have  called  on  her  since,"  continued  she,  looking 
at  the  culprit  with  the  stern  look  of  a  detective  policeman  in 
the  act  of  declaring  himself. 

Mr.  Slope  turned  over  in  his  mind  whether  it  would  be 
well  for  him  to  tell  this  termagant  at  once  that  he  should  call 
on  whom  he  liked,  and  do  what  he  liked ;  but  he  remembered 
that  his  footing  in  Barchester  was  not  yet  sufficiently  firm, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  pacify  her. 

151 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"I  certainly  called  since  at  Dr.  Stanhope's  house,  and  cer- 
tainly saw  Madame  Neroni." 

"Yes,  and  you  saw  her  alone,"  said  the  episcopal  Argus. 

"Undoubtedly,  I  did,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "but  that  was  be- 
cause nobody  else  happened  to  be  in  the  room.  Surely  it  was 
no  fault  of  mine  if  the  rest  of  the  family  were  out." 

"Perhaps  not ;  but  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Slope,  you  will  fall 
greatly  in  my  estimation  if  I  find  that  you  allow  yourself  to 
be  caught  by  the  lures  of  that  woman.  I  know  women  better 
than  you  do,  Mr.  Slope,  and  you  may  believe  me  that  that 
signora,  as  she  calls  herself,  is  not  a  fitting  companion  for  a 
strict  evangelical,  unmarried  young  clergyman." 

How  Mr.  Slope  would  have  liked  to  laugh  at  her,  had  he 
dared !  But  he  did  not  dare.  So  he  merely  said,  "  I  can  as- 
sure you,  Mrs.  Proudie,  the  lady  in  question  is  nothing 
to  me." 

"Well,  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Slope.  But  I  have  considered  it  my 
duty  to  give  you  this  caution ;  and  now  there  is  another  thing 
I  feel  myself  called  on  to  speak  about ;  it  is  your  conduct  to 
the  bishop,  Mr.  Slope." 

"My  conduct  to  the  bishop,"  said  he,  now  truly  surprised 
and  ignorant  what  the  lady  alluded  to. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Slope ;  your  conduct  to  the  bishop.  It  is  by  no 
means  what  I  would  wish  to  see  it." 

"Has  the  bishop  said  anything,  Mrs.  Proudie?" 

"No,  the  bishop  has  said  nothing.  He  probably  thinks 
that  any  remarks  on  the  matter  will  come  better  from  me, 
who  first  introduced  you  to  his  lordship's  notice.  The  fact 
is,  Mr.  Slope,  you  are  a  little  inclined  to  take  too  much  upon 
yourself." 

An  angry  spot  showed  itself  on  Mr.  Slope's  cheeks,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  controlled  himself.  But  he  did 
do  so,  and  sat  quite  silent  while  the  lady  went  on. 

"It  is  the  fault  of  many  young  men  in  your  position,  and 
therefore  the  bishop  is  not  inclined  at  present  to  resent  it. 
You  will,  no  doubt,  soon  learn  what  is  required  from  you, 
and  what  is  not.  If  you  will  take  my  advice,  however,  you 
will  be  careful  not  to  obtrude  advice  upon  the  bishop  in  any 
matter  touching  patronage.  If  his  lordship  wants  advice,  he 
knows  where  to  look  for  it."     And  then  having  added  to  her 

152 


THE   WIDOW'S   PERSECUTION. 

counsel  a  string  of  platitudes  as  to  what  was  desirable  and 
what  not  desirable  in  the  conduct  of  a  strictly  evangelical,  un- 
married young  clergyman,  Mrs.  Proudie  retreated,  leaving 
the  chaplain  to  his  thoughts. 

The  upshot  of  his  thoughts  was  this,  that  there  certainly 
was  not  room  in  the  diocese  for  the  energies  of  both  himself 
and  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  that  it  behoved  him  quickly  to  ascer- 
tain whether  his  energies  or  hers  were  to  prevail. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    widow's    persecution. 

EARLY  on  the  following  morning  Mr.  Slope  was  sum- 
moned to  the  bishop's  dressing-room,  and  went  there 
fully  expecting  that  he  should  find  his  lordship  very  indig- 
nant, and  spirited  up  by  his  wife  to  repeat  the  rebuke  which 
she  had  administered  on  the  previous  day.  Mr.  Slope  had 
resolved  that  at  any  rate  from  him  he  would  not  stand  it,  and 
entered  the  dressing-room  in  rather  a  combative  disposition ; 
but  he  found  the  bishop  in  the  most  placid  and  gentlest  of 
humours.  His  lordship  complained  of  being  rather  unwell, 
had  a  slight  headache,  and  was  not  quite  the  thing  in  his 
stomach ;  but  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  his  temper. 

"Oh,  Slope,"  said  he,  taking  the  chaplain's  profifered  hand, 
"Archdeacon  Grantly  is  to  call  on  me  this  morning,  and  I 
really  am  not  fit  to  see  him.  I  fear  I  must  trouble  you  to 
see  him  for  me ;"  and  then  Dr.  Proudie  proceeded  to  explain 
what  it  was  that  must  be  said  to  Dr.  Grantly.  He  was  to  be 
told  in  fact  in  the  civilest  words  in  which  the  tidings  could  be 
conveyed,  that  Mr.  Harding  having  refused  the  wardenship, 
the  appointment  had  been  offered  to  Mr.  Quiverful  and  ac- 
cepted by  him. 

Mr.  Slope  again  pointed  out  to  his  patron  that  he  thought 
he  was  perhaps  not  quite  wise  in  his  decision,  and  this  he  did 
sotto  voce.  But  even  with  this  precaution  it  was  not  safe 
to  say  much,  and  during  the  little  that  he  did  say,  the  bishop 
made  a  very  slight,  but  still  a  very  ominous  gesture  with  his 
thumb  towards  the   door  which  opened   from  his   dressing- 

153 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

room  to  some  inner  sanctuary.  Mr.  Slope  at  once  took  the 
hint,  and  said  no  more ;  but  he  perceived  that  there  was  to 
be  confidence  between  him  and  his  patron,  that  the  league 
desired  by  him  was  to  be  made,  and  that  this  appointment  of 
Mr.  Quiverful  was  to  be  the  last  sacrifice  offered  on  the  altar 
of  conjugal  obedience.  All  this  Mr.  Slope  read  in  the  slight 
motion  of  the  bishop's  thumb,  and  he  read  it  correctly.  There 
was  no  need  of  parchments  and  seals,  of  attestations,  explana- 
tions, and  professions.  The  bargain  was  understood  between 
them,  and  Mr.  Slope  gave  the  bishop  his  hand  upon  it.  The 
bishop  understood  the  little  extra  squeeze,  and  an  intelligible 
gleam  of  assent  twinkled  in  his  eye. 

"Pray  be  civil  to  the  archdeacon,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  he  out 
loud ;  "but  make  him  quite  understand  that  in  this  matter  Mr. 
Harding  has  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  oblige  him." 

It  would  be  a  calumny  on  Mrs.  Proudie  to  suggest  that  she 
was  sitting  in  her  bed-room  with  her  ear  at  the  keyhole  dur- 
ing this  interview.  She  had  within  her  a  spirit  of  decorum 
which  prevented  her  from  descending  to  such  baseness.  To 
put  her  ear  to  a  key-hole  or  to  listen  at  a  chink,  was  a  trick 
for  a  housemaid. 

Mrs.  Proudie  knew  this,  and  therefore  she  did  not  do  it ; 
but  she  stationed  herself  as  near  to  the  door  as  she  well  could, 
that  she  might,  if  possible,  get  the  advantage  which  the 
housemaid  would  have  had,  without  descending  to  the  house- 
maid's artifice. 

It  was  little,  however,  that  she  heard,  and  that  little  was 
only  sufficient  to  deceive  her.  She  saw  nothing  of  that 
friendly  pressure,  perceived  nothing  of  that  concluded  bar- 
gain ;  she  did  not  even  dream  of  the  treacherous  resolves 
which  those  two  false  men  had  made  together  to  upset  her  in 
the  pride  of  her  station,  to  dash  the  cup  from  her  lip  before 
she  drank  of  it,  to  sweep  away  all  her  power  before  she  had 
tasted  its  sweets !  Traitors  that  they  were ;  the  husband  of 
her  bosom,  and  the  outcast  whom  she  had  fostered  and 
brought  to  the  warmth  of  the  world's  brightest  fireside !  But 
neither  of  them  had  the  magnanimity  of  this  woman.  Though 
two  men  have  thus  leagued  themselves  together  against  her, 
even  yet  the  battle  is  not  lost. 

Mr.  Slope  felt  pretty  sure  that  Dr.  Grantly  would  decline 

154 


THE   WIDOW'S    PERSECUTION. 

the  honour  of  seeing  him,  and  such  turned  out  to  be  the  case. 
The  archdeacon,  when  the  palace  door  was  opened  to  him, 
was  greeted  by  a  note.  Mr.  Slope  presented  his  compli- 
ments, &c.  &c.  The  bishop  was  ill  in  his  room,  and  very 
greatly  regretted,  &c.  &c.  Mr.  Slope  had  been  charged  with 
the  bishop's  views,  and  if  agreeable  to  the  archdeacon,  would 
do  himself  the  honour,  &c.  &c.  The  archdeacon,  however, 
was  not  agreeable,  and  having  read  his  note  in  the  hall, 
crumpled  it  up  in  his  hand,  and  muttering  something  about 
sorrow  for  his  lordship's  illness,  took  his  leave,  without  send- 
ing as  much  as  a  verbal  message  in  answer  to  Mr.  Slope's 
note. 

"Ill !"  said  the  archdeacon  to  himself  as  he  flung  himself 
into  his  brougham.  "The  man  is  absolutely  a  coward.  He 
is  afraid  to  see  me.  Ill,  indeed  !"  The  archdeacon  was  never 
ill  himself,  and  did  not  therefore  understand  that  any  one 
else  could  in  truth  be  prevented  by  illness  from  keeping  an 
appointment.  He  regarded  all  such  excuses  as  subterfuges, 
and  in  the  present  instance  he  was  not  far  wrong. 

Dr.  Grantly  desired  to  be  driven  to  his  father-in-law's  lodg- 
ings in  the  High  Street,  and  hearing  from  the  servant  that 
Mr.  Harding  was  at  his  daughter's,  followed  him  to  Mrs. 
Bold's  house,  and  there  found  him.  The  archdeacon  was 
fuming  with  rage  when  he  got  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
had  by  this  time  nearly  forgotten  the  pusillanimity  of  the 
bishop  in  the  villainy  of  the  chaplain. 

"Look  at  that,"  said  he,  throwing  Mr.  Slope's  crumpled 
note  to  Mr.  Harding.  "I  am  to  be  told  that  if  I  choose  I  may 
have  the  honour  of  seeing  Mr.  Slope,  and  that,  too,  after  a 
positive  engagement  with  the  bishop." 

"But  he  says  the  bishop  is  ill,"  said  Mr,  Harding, 

"Pshaw !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  deceived  by 
such  an  excuse  as  that.  He  was  well  enough  yesterday. 
Now  I  tell  you  what,  I  will  see  the  bishop ;  and  I  will  tell  him 
also  very  plainly  what  I  think  of  his  conduct.  I  will  see 
him,  or  else  Barchester  will  soon  be  too  hot  to  hold  him." 

Eleanor  was  sitting  in  the  room,  but  Dr.  Grantly  had  hard- 
ly noticed  her  in  his  anger.  Eleanor  now  said  to  him,  with 
the  greatest  innocence.  "I  wish  you  had  seen  Mr.  Slope,  Dr. 
Grantly,  because  I  think  perhaps  it  might  have  done  good," 

155 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

The  archdeacon  turned  on  her  with  almost  brutal  wrath. 
Had  she  at  once  owned  that  she  had  accepted  Mr.  Slope  for 
her  second  husband,  he  could  hardly  have  felt  more  con- 
vinced of  her  belonging  body  and  soul  to  the  Slope  and 
Proudie  party  than  he  now  did  on  hearing  her  express  such 
a  wish  as  this.     Poor  Eleanor ! 

"See  him!"  said  the  archdeacon,  glaring  at  her;  "and  why 
am  I  to  be  called  on  to  lower  myself  in  the  world's  esteem 
and  my  own  by  coming  in  contact  with  such  a  man  as  that? 
I  have  hitherto  lived  among  gentlemen,  and  do  not  mean  to 
be  dragged  into  other  company  by  anybody." 

Poor  Mr.  Harding  well  knew  what  the  archdeacon  meant, 
but  Eleanor  was  as  innocent  as  her  own  baby.  She  could  not 
understand  how  the  archdeacon  could  consider  himself  to  be 
dragged  into  bad  company  by  condescending  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Slope  for  a  few  minutes  when  the  interests  of  her  father 
might  be  served  by  his  doing  so. 

"I  was  talking  for  a  full  hour  yesterday  to  Mr.  Slope,"  said 
she,  with  some  little  assumption  of  dignity,  "and  I  did  not 
find  myself  lowered  by  it." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  he.  "But  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to 
allow  me,  I  shall  judge  for  myself  in  such  matters.  And  I 
tell  you  what,  Eleanor;  it  will  be  much  better  for  you  if  you 
will  allow  yourself  to  be  guided  also  by  the  advice  of  those 
who  are  your  friends.  If  you  do  not  you  will  be  apt  to  find 
that  you  have  no  friends  left  who  can  advise  you." 

Eleanor  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  But  even  now 
she  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  was  passing  in  the 
archdeacon's  mind.  No  thought  of  love-making  or  love- 
receiving  had  yet  found  its  way  to  her  heart  since  the  death 
of  poor  John  Bold ;  and  if  it  were  possible  that  such  a  thought 
should  spring  there,  the  man  must  be  far  different  from  Mr. 
Slope  that  could  give  it  birth. 

Nevertheless  Eleanor  blushed  deeply,  for  she  felt  she  was 
charged  with  improper  conduct,  and  she  did  so  with  the  more 
inward  pain  because  her  father  did  not  instantly  rally  to  her 
side ;  that  father  for  whose  sake  and  love  she  had  submitted  to 
be  the  receptacle  of  Mr.  Slope's  confidence.  She  had  given  a 
detailed  account  of  all  that  had  passed  to  her  father;  and 
though  he  had  not  absolutely  agreed   with  her  about  Mr. 

156 


THE    WIDOW'S    PERSECUTION. 

Slope's  views  touching  the  hospital,  yet  he  had  said  nothing 
to  make  her  think  that  she  had  been  wrong  in  talking  to  him. 

She  was  far  too  angry  to  humble  herself  before  her 
brother-in-law.  Indeed,  she  had  never  accustomed  herself  to 
be  very  abject  before  him,  and  they  had  never  been  confiden- 
tial allies.  "I  do  not  the  least  understand  what  you  mean, 
Dr.  Grantly,"  said  she.  'T  do  not  know  that  I  can  accuse 
myself  of  doing  anything  that  my  friends  should  disapprove. 
Mr.  Slope  called  here  expressly  to  ask  what  papa's  wishes 
were  about  the  hospital ;  and  as  I  believe  he  called  with 
friendly  intentions  I  told  him." 

"Friendly  intentions !"  sneered  the  archdeacon. 

"I  believe  you  greatly  wrong  Mr.  Slope,"  continued  Elea- 
nor, "but  I  have  explained  this  to  papa  already ;  and  as  you 
do  not  seem  to  approve  of  what  I  say,  Dr.  Grantly,  I  will 
with  your  permission  leave  you  and  papa  together,"  and  so 
saying  she  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

All  this  made  Mr.  Harding  very  unhappy.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  the  archdeacon  and  his  wife  had  made  up  their 
minds  that  Eleanor  was  going  to  marry  Mr.  Slope.  Mr. 
Harding  could  not  really  bring  himself  to  think  that  she 
would  do  so,  but  yet  he  could  not  deny  that  circumstances 
made  it  appear  that  the  man's  company  was  not  disagreeable 
to  her.  She  was  now  constantly  seeing  him,  and  yet  she  re- 
ceived visits  from  no  other  unmarried  gentleman.  She  al- 
ways took  his  part  when  his  conduct  was  canvassed,  although 
she  was  aware  how  personally  objectionable  he  was  to  her 
friends.  Then,  again,  Mr.  Harding  felt  that  if  she  should 
choose  to  become  Mrs.  Slope,  he  had  nothing  that  he  could 
justly  urge  against  her  doing  so.  She  had  full  right  to  please 
herself,  and  he,  as  a  father,  could  not  say  that  she  would  dis- 
grace herself  by  marrying  a  clergyman  who  stood  so  well 
before  the  world  as  Mr.  Slope  did.  As  for  quarrelling  with 
his  daughter  on  account  of  such  a  marriage,  and  separating 
himself  from  her  as  the  archdeacon  had  threatened  to  do, 
that,  with  Mr.  Harding,  would  be  out  of  the  question.  If  she 
should  determine  to  marry  this  man.  he  must  get  over  his 
aversion  as  best  he  could.  His  Eleanor,  his  own  old  com- 
panion in  their  old  happv  home,  must  still  be  the  friend  of 
his  bosom,  the  child  of  his  heart.     Let  who  would  cast  her 

157 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

off,  he  would  not.  If  it  were  fated  that  he  should  have  to  sit 
in  his  old  age  at  the  same  table  with  that  man  whom  of  all 
men  he  disliker'  the  most,  he  would  meet  his  fate  as  best  he 
might.  Anything  to  him  would  be  preferable  to  the  loss  of 
his  daughter. 

Such  being  his  feelings,  he  hardly  knew  how  to  take  part 
with  Eleanor  against  the  archdeacon,  or  with  the  archdeacon 
against  Eleanor.  It  will  be  said  that  he  should  never  have 
suspected  her. — Alas !  he  never  should  have  done  so.  But 
Mr.  Harding  was  by  no  means  a  perfect  character.  In  his 
indecision,  his  weakness,  his  proneness  to  be  led  by  others, 
his  want  of  self-confidence,  he  was  very  far  from  being  per- 
fect. And  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  such  a  marriage 
as  that  which  the  archdeacon  contemplated  with  disgust, 
which  we  who  know  Mr.  Slope  so  well  would  regard  with 
equal  disgust,  did  not  appear  so  monstrous  to  Mr.  Harding, 
because  in  his  charity  he  did  not  hate  the  chaplain  as  the  arch- 
deacon did,  and  as  we  do. 

He  was,  however,  very  unhappy  when  his  daughter  left 
the  room,  and  he  had  recourse  to  an  old  trick  of  his  that  was 
customary  to  him  in  his  times  of  sadness.  He  began  playing 
some  slow  tune  upon  an  imaginary  violoncello,  drawing  one 
hand  slowly  backwards  and  forwards  as  though  he  held  a 
bow  in  it,  and  modulating  the  unreal  cords  with  the  other. 

"She'll  marry  that  man  as  sure  as  two  and  two  make  four," 
said  the  practical  archdeacon. 

"I  hope  not,  I  hope  not,"  said  the  father.     "But  if  she  does, 
what  can  I  say  to  her?     I  have  no  right  to  object  to  him." 
"No  right !"  exclaimed  Dr.  Grantly. 

"No  right  as  her  father.  He  is  in  my  own  profession,  and 
for  aught  we  know  a  good  man." 

To  this  the  archdeacon  would  by  no  means  assent.  It  was 
not  well,  however,  to  argue  the  case  against  Eleanor  in  her 
own  drawing-room,  and  so  they  both  walked  forth  and  dis- 
cussed the  matter  in  all  its  bearings  under  the  elm  trees  of 
the  close.  Mr.  Harding  also  explained  to  his  son-in-law 
what  had  been  the  purport,  at  any  rate  the  alleged  purport, 
of  Mr.  Slope's  last  visit  to  the  widow.  He,  however,  stated 
that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that  Mr.  Slope  had 
any  real  anxiety  such  as  that  he  had  pretended. 

158 


THE   WIDOW'S    PERSECUTION. 

"I  cannot  forget  his  demeanour  to  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Harding,  "and  it  is  not  possible  that  his  ideas  should  have 
changed  so  soon," 

"I  see  it  all,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "The  sly  tartufe!  He 
thinks  to  buy  the  daughter  by  providing  for  the  father.  He 
means  to  show  how  powerful  he  is,  how  good  he  is,  and  how 
much  he  is  willing  to  do  for  her  beaux  yeux;  yes,  I  see  it  all 
now.  But  we'll  be  too  many  for  him  yet,  Mr.  Harding,"  he 
said,  turning  to  his  companion  with  some  gravity,  and  press- 
ing his  hand  upon  the  other's  arm.  'Tt  would,  perhaps,  be 
better  for  you  to  lose  the  hospital  than  get  it  on  such  terms." 

"Lose  it!"  said  Mr.  Harding;  "why  I've  lost  it  already.  I 
don't  want  it.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  do  without  it.  I'll 
withdraw  altogether.  I'll  just  go  and  write  a  line  to  the 
bishop  and  tell  him  that'  I  withdraw  my  claim  altogether." 

Nothing  would  have  pleased  him  better  than  to  be  allowed 
to  escape  from  the  trouble  and  difficulty  in  such  a  manner. 
But  he  was  now  going  too  fast  for  the  archdeacon. 

"No — no — no!  we'll  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Dr.  Grantly ; 
"we'll  still  have  the  hospital.  I  hardly  doubt  but  that  we'll 
have  it.  But  not  by  Mr.  Slope's  assistance.  If  that  be  nec- 
essary we'll  lose  it ;  but  we'll  have  it,  spite  of  his  teeth,  if  we 
can.  Arabin  will  be  at  Plumstead  to-morrow;  you  must 
come  over  and  talk  to  him." 

The  two  now  turned  into  the  cathedral  library,  which  was 
used  by  the  clergymen  of  the  close  as  a  sort  of  ecclesiastical 
club-room,  for  writing  sermons  and  sometimes  letters;  also 
for  reading  theological  works,  and  sometimes  magazines  and 
newspapers.  The  theological  works  were  not  disturbed,  per- 
haps, quite  as  often  as  from  the  appearance  of  the  building 
the  outside  public  might  have  been  led  to  expect.  Here  the 
two  allies  settled  on  their  course  of  action.  The  archdeacon 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  bishop,  strongly  worded,  but  still  re- 
spectful, in  which  he  put  forward  his  father-in-law's  claim  to 
the  appointment,  and  expressed  his  own  regret  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  see  his  lordship  when  he  called.  Of  Mr. 
Slope  he  made  no  mention  whatsoever.  It  was  then  settled 
that  Mr.  Harding  should  go  out  to  Plumstead  on  the  follow- 
ing day ;  and  after  considerable  discussion  on  the  matter,  the 
archdeacon  proposed  to  ask  Eleanor  there  also,  so  as  to  with- 

159 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

draw  her,  if  possible,  from  Mr,  Slope's  attentions.  "A  week 
or  two,"  said  he,  "may  teach  her  what  he  is,  and  while  she  is 
there  she  will  be  out  of  harm's  way.  Mr.  Slope  won't  come 
there  after  her." 

Eleanor  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  her  brother-in-law 
came  back  and  very  civilly  pressed  her  to  go  out  to  Plum- 
stead  with  her  father.  She  instantly  perceived  that  her  fa- 
ther had  been  fighting  her  battles  for  her  behind  her  back. 
She  felt  thankful  to  him,  and  for  his  sake  she  would  not 
show  her  resentment  to  the  archdeacon  by  refusing  his  invi- 
tation. But  she  could  not,  she  said,  go  on  the  morrow ;  she 
had  an  invitation  to  drink  tea  at  the  Stanhopes  which  she  had 
promised  to  accept.  She  would,  she  added,  go  with  her  fa- 
ther on  the  next  day,  if  he  would  wait ;  or  she  would  follow 
him. 

"The  Stanhopes !"  said  Dr.  Grantly ;  "I  did  not  know  you 
were  so  intimate  with  them." 

"I  did  not  know  it  myself,"  said  she,  "till  Miss  Stanhope 
called  yesterday.  However,  I  like  her  very  much,  and  I  have 
promised  to  go  and  play  chess  with  some  of  them." 

"Have  they  a  party  there  ?"  said  the  archdeacon,  still  fear- 
ful of  Mr.  Slope. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Eleanor ;  "Miss  Stanhope  said  there  was  to 
be  nobody  at  all.  But  she  had  heard  that  Mary  had  left  me 
for  a  few  weeks,  and  she  had  learnt  from  some  one  that  I 
play  chess,  and  so  she  came  over  on  purpose  to  ask  me  to 
go  in." 

"Well,  that's  very  friendly,"  said  the  ex-warden.  "They 
certainly  do  look  more  like  foreigners  than  English  people, 
but  I  dare  say  they  are  none  the  worse  for  that." 

The  archdeacon  was  inclined  to  look  upon  the  Stanhopes 
with  favourable  eyes,  and  had  nothing  to  object  on  the  mat- 
ter. It  was  therefore  arranged  that  Mr,  Harding  should 
postpone  his  visit  to  Plumstead  for  one  day,  and  then  take 
with  him  Eleanor,  the  baby,  and  the  nurse. 

Mr.  Slope  is  certainly  becoming  of  some  importance  in 
Barchester. 


1 60 


BARCHESTER  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BARCHESTER    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

THERE  was  much  cause  for  grief  and  occasional  per- 
turbation of  spirits  in  the  Stanhope  family,  but  yet 
they  rarely  seemed  to  be  grieved  or  to  be  disturbed.  It  was 
the  peculiar  gift  of  each  of  them  that  each  was  able  to  bear 
his  or  her  own  burden  without  complaint,  and  perhaps  with- 
out sympathy.  They  habitually  looked  on  the  sunny  side  of 
the  wall,  if  there  was  a  gleam  on  either  side  for  them  to  look 
at ;  and,  if  there  was  none,  they  endured  the  shade  with  an 
indifference  which,  if  not  stoical,  answered  the  end  at  which 
the  Stoics  aimed.  Old  Stanhope  could  not  but  feel  that  he 
had  ill-performed  his  duties  as  a  father  and  a  clergyman ; 
and  could  hardly  look  forward  to  his  own  death  without 
grief  at  the  position  in  which  he  would  leave  his  family.  His 
income  for  many  years  had  been  as  high  as  3000/.  a  year,  and 
yet  they  had  among  them  no  other  provision  than  thei" 
mother's  fortune  of  10,000/.  He  had  not  only  spent  his  in- 
come, but  was  in  debt.  Yet  with  all  this,  he  seldom  showed 
much  outward  sign  of  trouble. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  mother.  If  she  added  little  to 
the  pleasures  of  her  children  she  detracted  still  less :  she 
neither  grumbled  at  her  lot,  nor  spoke  much  of  her  past  or 
future  sufferings;  as  long  as  she  had  a  maid 'to  adjust  her 
dress,  and  had  those  dresses  well  made,  nature  with  her  was 
satisfied.  It  was  the  same  with  the  children.  Charlotte 
never  rebuked  her  father  with  the  prospect  of  their  future 
poverty,  nor  did  it  seem  to  grieve  her  that  she  was  becoming 
an  old  maid  so  quickly ;  her  temper  was  rarely  ruffled,  and,  if 
we  might  judge  by  her  appearance,  she  was  always  happy. 
The  signora  was  not  so  sweet-tempered,  but  she  possessed 
much  enduring  courage ;  she  seldom  complained — never,  in- 
deed, to  her  family.  Though  she  had  a  cause  for  affliction 
which  would  have  utterly  broken  down  the  heart  of  most 
women  as  beautiful  as  she  and  as  devoid  of  all  religious  sup- 
port, yet,  she  bore  her  suffering  in  silence,  or  alluded  to  it 
onlv  to  elicit  the  sympathy  and  stimulate  the  admiration  of 

"  161 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

the  men  with  whom  she  flirted.  As  to  Bertie,  one  would 
have  imagined  from  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  gleam  of 
his  eye  that  he  had  not  a  sorrow  nor  a  care  in  the  world. 
Nor  had  he.  He  was  incapable  of  anticipating  to-morrow's 
griefs.  The  prospect  of  future  want  no  more  disturbed  his 
appetite  than  does  that  of  the  butcher's  knife  disturb  the  ap- 
petite of  the  sheep. 

Such  was  the  usual  tenour  of  their  way ;  but  there  were 
rare  exceptions.  Occasionally  the  father  would  allow  an 
angry  glance  to  fall  from  his  eye,  and  the  lion  would  send 
forth  a  low  dangerous  roar  as  though  he  meditated  some  deed 
of  blood.  Occasionally  also  Madame  Neroni  would  become 
bitter  against  mankind,  more  than  usually  antagonistic  to  the 
world's  decencies,  and  would  seem  as  though  she  was  about 
to  break  from  her  moorings  and  allow  herself  to  be  carried 
forth  by  the  tide  of  her  feelings  to  utter  ruin  and  shipwreck. 
She,  however,  like  the  rest  of  them,  had  no  real  feelings, 
could  feel  no  true  passion.  In  that  was  her  security.  Before 
she  resolved  on  any  contemplated  escapade  she  would  make 
a  sm.all  calculation,  and  generally  summed  up  that  the  Stan- 
hope villa  or  even  Barchester  close  was  better  than  the  world 
at  large. 

They  were  most  irregular  in  their  hours.  The  father  was 
generally  the  earliest  in  the  breakfast-parlour,  and  Charlotte 
would  soon  follow  and  give  him  his  cofifee ;  but  the  others 
breakfasted  anywhere,  anyhow,  and  at  any  time.  On  the 
morning  after  the  archdeacon's  futile  visit  to  the  palace,  Dr. 
Stanhope  came  down  stairs  with  an  ominously  dark  look 
about  his  eyebrows ;  his  white  locks  were  rougher  than  usual, 
and  he  breathed  thickly  and  loudly  as  he  took  his  seat  in  his 
arm-chair.  He  had  open  letters  in  his  hand,  and  when  Char- 
lotte came  into  the  room  he  was  still  reading  them.  She 
went  up  and  kissed  him  as  was  her  wont,  but  he  hardly  no- 
ticed her  as  she  did  so,  and  she  knew  at  once  that  something 
was  the  matter. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  that  ?"  said  he,  throwing  over  the 
table  a  letter  with  a  Milan  post-mark.  Charlotte  was  a  little 
frightened  as  she  took  it  up,  but  her  mind  was  relieved  when 
she  saw  that  it  was  merely  the  bill  of  their  Italian  milliner. 
The  sum  total  was  certainly  large,  but  not  so  large  as  to  cre- 
ate an  important  row. 

162 


BARCHESTER    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

"It's  for  our  clothes,  papa,  for  six  months  before  we 
came  here.  The  three  of  us  can't  dress  for  nothing,  you 
know." 

"Nothing,  indeed !"  said  he,  looking  at  the  figures,  which 
in  Milanese  denominations  were  certainly  monstrous. 

"The  man  should  have  sent  it  to  me,"  said  Charlotte. 

"I  wish  he  had  with  all  my  heart — if  you  would  have  paid 
it.  I  see  enough  in  it,  to  know  that  three  quarters  of  it  are 
for  Madeline." 

"She  has  little  else  to  amuse  her,  sir,"  said  Charlotte  with 
true  good  nature. 

"And  I  suppose  he  has  nothing  else  to  amuse  him,"  said 
the  doctor,  throwing  over  another  letter  to  his  daughter.  It 
was  from  some  member  of  the  family  of  Sidonia.  and  politely 
requested  the  father  to  pay  a  small  trifle  of  700/.,  being  the 
amount  of  a  bill  discounted  in  favour  of  Mr.  Ethelbert  Stan- 
hope, and  now  overdue  for  a  period  of  nine  months. 

Charlotte  read  the  letter,  slowly  folded  it  up,  and  put  it 
under  the  edge  of  the  tea-tray. 

"I  s appose  he  has  nothing  to  amuse  him  but  discounting 
bills  with  Jews.    Does  he  think  I'll  pay  that?" 

"I  am  sure  he  thinks  no  such  thing,"  said  she. 

"And  who  does  he  think  will  pay  it?" 

"As  far  as  honesty  goes  I  suppose  it  won't  much  matter  if 
it  is  never  paid,"  said  she.  "I  dare  say  he  got  very  little  of 
it." 

"I  suppose  it  won't  much  matter  either,"  said  the  father, 
"if  he  goes  to  prison  and  rots  there.  It  seems  to  me  that 
that's  the  other  alternative." 

Dr.  Stanhope  spoke  of  the  custom  of  his  youth.  But  his 
daughter,  though  she  had  lived  so  long  abroad,  was  much 
more  completely  versed  in  the  ways  of  the  English  world. 
"If  the  man  arrests  him,"  said  she,  "he  must  go  through 
the  court." 

It  is  thus,  thou  great  family  of  Sidonia — it  is  thus  that 
we  Gentiles  treat  thee,  when,  in  our  extremest  need,  thou 
and  thine  have  aided  us  with  mountains  of  gold  as  big  as 
lions, — and  occasionally  with  wine-warrants  and  orders  for 
dozens  of  dressing-cases. 

"What,  and  become  an  insolvent?"  said  the  doctor. 

163 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"He's  that  already,"  said  Charlotte,  wishing  always  to  get 
over  a  difficulty. 

"What  a  condition,"  said  the  doctor,  "for  the  son  of  i 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England !" 

"I  don't  see  why  clergymen's  sons  should  pay  their  debts 
more  than  other  young  men,"  sa'd  Charlotte. 

"He's  had  as  much  from  me  since  he  left  school  as  is  held 
sufficient  for  the  eldest  son  of  many  a  nobleman,"  said  the 
angry   father. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Charlotte,  "give  him  another  chance." 

"What !"  said  the  doctor,  "do  you  mean  that  I  am  to  pay 
that  Jew  ?" 

"Oh,  no !  I  wouldn't  pay  him,  he  must  take  his  chance ; 
and  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  Bertie  must  be  abroad. 
But  I  want  you  to  be  civil  to  Bertie,  and  let  him  remain  here 
as  long  as  we  stop.  He  has  a  plan  in  his  head,  that  may  put 
him  on  his  feet  after  all." 

"Has  he  any  plan  for  following  up  his  profession  ?" 

"Oh,  he'll  do  that  too;  but  that  must  follow.  He's  think- 
ing of  getting  married." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Bertie  came  in 
whistling.  The  doctor  immediately  devoted  himself  to  his 
egg,  and  allowed  Bertie  to  whistle  himself  round  to  his 
sister's  side  without  noticing  him. 

Charlotte  gave  a  sien  to  him  with  her  eve.  first  glancing 
at  her  father,  and  then  at  the  letter,  the  corner  of  which 
peeped  out  from  under  the  tea-tray.  Bertie  saw  and  un- 
derstood, and  with  the  quiet  motion  of  a  cat  abstracted  the 
letter,  and  made  himself  acquainted  with  its  contents.  The 
doctor,  however,  had  seen  him,  deep  as  he  aoneared  to  be 
mersed  in  his  egg-shell,  and  said  in  his  harshest  voice,  "Well, 
sir,  do  you  know  that  gentleman?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bertie.  "I  have  a  sort  of  acnuaintance 
with  him,  but  none  that  can  justifv  him  in  troubling  you. 
If  vou  will  allow  me,  sir,  I  will  answer  this." 

"At  any  rate  I  sha'n't,"  said  the  father,  and  then  he  added, 
after  a  pause.  "Is  it  true,  sir,  that  you  owe  the  man  70o/.  ?*' 

"Well,"  said  Bertie.  "I  think  I  should  be  inclined  to  dis- 
pute the  amount,  if  I  were  in  a  position  to  pay  him  such 
of  it  as  I  really  do  owe  him." 

164 


BARCHESTER    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

"Has  he  your  bill  for  700/.  ?"  said  the  father,  speaking 
very  loudly  and  very  angrily. 

"Well,  I  believe  he  has,"  said  Bertie;  "but  all  the  money 
I  ever  got  from  him  was  150/." 

"And  what  became  of  the  550/.?" 

"Why,  sir,  the  commission  was  100/.  or  so,  and  I  took  the 
remainder  in  paving-stones  and  rocking-horses." 

"Paving  stones  and  rocking-horses !"  said  the  doctor, 
"where  are  they?" 

"Oh,  sir,  I  suppose  they  are  in  London  somewhere — but 
I'll  inquire  if  you  wish  for  them." 

"He's  an  idiot,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  it's  sheer  folly  to 
waste  more  money  on  him.  Nothing  can  save  him  from 
ruin ;"  and  so  saying,  the  unhappy  father  walked  out  of  the 
lioom. 

"Would  the  governor  like  to  have  the  paving-stones?" 
said  Bertie  to  his  sister. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  she,  "if  you  don't  take  care,  you 
will  find  yourself  loose  upon  the  world  without  even  a  house 
over  your  head :  you  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do.  He's 
very  angry." 

Bertie  stroked  his  big  beard,  sipped  his  tea,  chatted  over 
his  misfortunes  in  a  half  comic,  half  serious  tone,  and  ended 
by  promising  his  sister  that  he  would  do  his  best  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  the  widow  Bold.  Then  Charlotte  fol- 
lowed her  father  to  his  own  room  and  softened  down  his 
wrath,  and  persuaded  him  to  say  nothing  more  about  the 
Jew  bill  discounter,  at  any  rate  for  a  few  weeks.  He  even 
went  so  far  as  to  say  he  would  pay  the  700/.,  or  at  any  rate 
settle  the  bill,  if  he  saw  a  certainty  of  his  son's  securing  for 
himself  anything  like  a  decent  provision  in  life.  Nothing 
was  said  openly  between  them  about  poor  Eleanor :  but  the 
father  and  the  daughter  understood  each  other. 

They  all  met  together  in  the  drawing-room  at  nine  o'clock, 
in  perfect  good  humour  with  each  other;  and  about  that 
hour  Mrs.  Bold  was  announced.  She  had  never  been  in 
the  house  before,  though  she  had  of  course  called;  and 
now  she  felt  it  strange  to  find  herself  there  in  her  usual  even- 
ing dress,  entering  the  drawing-room  of  these  strangers  in 
this  friendlv  unceremonious  way,  as  though  she  had  known 

165 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

them  all  her  life.  But  in  three  minutes  they  made  her  at 
home.  Charlotte  tripped  down  stairs  and  took  her  bonnet 
from  her,  and  Bertie  came  to  relieve  her  from  her  shawl, 
and  the  signora  sniiled  on  her  as  she  could  smile  when  she 
chose  to  be  gracious,  and  the  old  doctor  shook  hands  with 
her  in  a  kind  benedictory  manner  that  went  to  her  heart  at 
once,  and  made  her  feel  that  he  must  be  a  good  man. 

She  had  not  been  seated  for  above  five  minutes  when  the 
door  again  opened,  and  Mr.  Slope  was  announced.  She  felt 
rather  surprised,  because  she  was  told  that  nobody  was  to 
be  there,  and  it  was  very  evident  from  the  manner  of  some 
of  them,  that  Mr.  Slope  was  unexpected.  But  still  there 
was  not  much  in  it.  In  such  invitations  a  bachelor  or  two 
more  or  less  are  always  spoken  of  as  nobodies,  and  there 
was  no  reason  why  Mr.  Slope  should  not  drink  tea  at  Dr. 
Stanhope's  as  well  as  Eleanor  herself.  He,  however,  was  very 
much  surprised  and  not  very  much  gratified  at  finding  that 
his  own  embryo  spouse  made  one  of  the  party.  He  had 
come  there  to  gratify  himself  by  gazing  on  Madame  Ne- 
roni's  beauty,  and  listening  to  and  returning  her  flattery: 
and  though  h.^  had  not  owned  as  much  to  himself,  he  still  felt 
that  if  he  spent  the  evening  as  he  had  intended  to  do,  he 
might  probably  not  thereby  advance  his  suit  with  Mrs.  Bold. 

The  signora,  who  had  no  idea  of  a  rival,  received  Mr. 
Slope  with  her  usual  marks  of  distinction.  As  he  took  her 
hand,  she  made  some  confidential  communication  to  him  in 
a  low  voice,  declaring  that  she  had  a  plan  to  communicate 
to  him  after  tea,  and  was  evidently  prepared  to  go  on  with 
her  work  of  reducing  the  chaplain  to  a  state  of  captivity. 
Poor  Mr.  Slope  was  rather  beside  himself.  He  thought  that 
Eleanor  could  not  but  have  learnt  from  his  demeanour  that 
he  was  an  admirer  of  her  own,  and  he  had  also  flattered  him- 
self that  the  idea  was  not  unacceptable  to  her.  What  would 
she  think  of  him  if  he  now  devoted  himself  to  a  married 
woman ! 

But  Eleanor  was  not  inclined  to  be  severe  in  her  criticisms 
on  him  in  this  respect,  and  felt  no  annoyance  of  any  kind, 
when  she  found  herself  seated  between  Bertie  and  Charlotte 
Stanhope.  She  had  no  suspicion  of  Mr.  Slope's  intentions ; 
she  had  no  suspicion  even  of  the  suspicion  of  other  people; 

1 66 


BARCHESTER    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

but  still  she  felt  well  pleased  not  to  have  Mr.  Slope  too  near 
to  her. 

And  she  was  not  ill-pleased  to  have  Bertie  Stanhope  near 
her.  It  was  rarely  indeed  that  he  failed  to  make  an  agree- 
able impression  on  strangers.  With  a  bishop  indeed  who 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  it  was  possible  that  he  might 
fail,  but  hardly  with  a  young  and  pretty  woman.  He  pos- 
sessed the  tact  of  becoming  instantly  intimate  with  women 
without  giving  rise  to  any  fear  of  impertinence.  He  had 
about  him  somewhat  of  the  propensities  of  a  tame  cat.  It 
seemed  quite  natural  that  he  should  be  petted,  caressed,  and 
treated  with  familiar  good  nature,  and  that  in  return  he 
should  purr,  and  be  sleek  and  graceful,  and  above  all  never 
show  his  claws.  Like  other  tame  cats,  however,  he  had  his 
claws,  and  sometimes  made  them  dangerous. 

When  tea  was  over  Charlotte  went  to  the  open  window 
and  declared  loudly  that  the  full  harvest  moon  was  much 
too  beautiful  to  be  disregarded,  and  called  them  all  to  look 
at  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  there  was  but  one  there  who  cared 
much  about  the  moon's  beauty,  and  that  one  was  not  Char- 
lotte ;  but  she  knew  how  valuable  an  aid  to  her  purpose  the 
chaste  goddess  might  become,  and  could  easily  create  a  little 
enthusiasm  for  the  purpose  of  the  moment.  Eleanor  and 
Bertie  were  soon  with  her.  The  doctor  was  now  quiet  in 
his  arm-chair,  and  Airs.  Stanhope  in  hers,  both  prepared  for 
slumber. 

"Are  you  a  Whewellite  or  a  Brewsterite,  or  a  t'other- 
manite,  Mrs.  Bold?"  said  Charlotte,  who  knew  a  little  about 
everything,  and  had  read  about  a  third  of  each  of  the  books 
to  which  she  alluded. 

"Oh !"  said  Eleanor ;  "I  have  not  read  any  of  the  books, 
but  I  feel  sure  that  there  is  one  man  in  the  moon  at  least,  if 
not  more." 

"You  don't  believe  in  the  pulpy  gelatinous  matter?"  said 
Bertie. 

"I  heard  about  that."  said  Eleanor;  "and  I  really  think  it's 
almost  wicked  to  talk  in  such  a  manner.  How  can  we  argue 
about  God's  power  in  the  other  stars  from  the  laws  which 
he  has  given   for  our  rule  in  this  one?" 

"How,   indeed!"   said   Bertie.     "Why   shouldn't  there  be 

167 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

a  race  of  salamanders  in  Venus  ?  and  even  if  there  be  noth- 
ing but  fish  in  Jupiter,  why  shouldn't  the  fish  there  be  as 
wide  awake  as  the  men  and  women  here?" 

"That  would  be  saying  very  little  for  them,"  said  Char- 
lotte. 'T  am  for  Dr.  Whewell  myself;  for  I  do  not  think 
that  men  and  women  are  worth  being  repeated  in  such  count- 
less w^orlds.  There  may  be  souls  in  other  stars,  but  I  doubt 
their  having  any  bodies  attached  to  them.  But  come,  Mrs. 
Bold,  let  us  put  our  bonnets  on  and  walk  round  the  close. 
If  we  are  to  discuss  sidereal  questions,  we  shall  do  so  much 
better  under  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  than  stuck  in  this 
narrow  window." 

Mrs.  Bold  made  no  objection,  and  a  party  was  made  to 
walk  out.  Charlotte  Stanhope  well  knew  the  rule  as  to 
three  being  no  company,  and  she  had  therefore  to  induce  her 
sister  to  allow  Mr.  Slope  to  accompany  them. 

"Come,  Mr.  Slope,"  she  said ;  "I'm  sure  you'll  join  us. 
We  shall  be  in  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Madeline." 

Madeline  read  in  her  eye  all  that  she  had  to  say,  knew 
her  object,  and  as  she  had  to  depend  on  her  sister  for  so 
many  of  her  amusements,  she  felt  that  she  must  yield.  It 
was  hard  to  be  left  alone  while  others  of  her  own  age  walked 
out  to  feel  the  soft  influence  of  the  bright  night,  but  it  would 
be  harder  still  to  be  without  the  sort  of  sanction  which 
Charlotte  gave  to  all  her  flirtations  and  intrigues.  Char- 
lotte's eye  told  her  that  she  must  give  up  just  at  present  for 
the  good  of  the  family,  and  so  Madeline  obeyed. 

But  Charlotte's  eye  said  nothing  of  the  sort  to  Mr.  Slope. 
He  had  no  objection  at  all  to  the  tetc-a-tcte  with  the  signora, 
which  the  departure  of  the  other  three  would  allow  him,  and 
gently  whispered  to  her,  "I  shall  not  leave  you  alone." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  she;  "go — pray  go,  pray  go,  for  my  sake. 
Do  not  think  that  I  am  so  selfish.  It  is  understood  that  no- 
body is  kept  within  for  me.  You  will  understand  this  too  when 
you  know  me  better.  Pray  join  them,  ]\Ir.  Slope,  but  when  you 
come  in  speak  to  me  for  five  minutes  before  you  leave  us." 
Mr.  Slope  understood  that  he  was  to  go,  and  he  therefore 
joined  the  party  in  the  hall.  He  would  have  had  no  ob- 
jection at  all  to  this  arrangement,  if  he  could  have  secured 
Mrs.  Bold's  arm ;  but  this  of  course  was  out  of  the  question. 

1 68 


BARCHESTER    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

Indeed,  his  fate  was  very  soon  settled,  for  no  sooner  had  he 
reached  the  hall-door  than  Miss  Stanhope  put  her  hand 
within  his  arm,  and  Bertie  walked  off  with  Eleanor  just  as 
naturally  as  though  she  were  already  his  own  property. 

And  so  they  sauntered  forth  :  first  they  walked  round  the 
close,  according  to  their  avowed  intent ;  then  they  went 
under  the  old  arched  gateway  below  St.  Cuthbert's  little 
church,  and  then  they  turned  behind  the  grounds  of  the 
bishop's  palace,  and  so  on  till  they  came  to  the  bridge  just 
at  the  edge  of  the  town,  from  which  passers-by  can  look 
down  into  the  gardens  of  Hiram's  Hospital ;  and  here  Char- 
lotte and  Mr.  Slope,  who  were  in  advance,  stopped  till  the 
other  two  came  up  to  them.  Mr.  Slope  knew  that  the  gable- 
ends  and  old  brick  chimneys  which  stood  up  so  prettily  in 
the  moonlight,  were  those  of  Mr.  Harding's  late  abode,  and 
would  not  have  stopped  on  such  a  spot,  in  such  company, 
if  he  could  have  avoided  it ;  but  Miss  Stanhope  would  not 
take  the  hint  which  he  tried  to  give. 

"This  is  a  very  pretty  place,  Mrs,  Bold,"  said  Charlotte ; 
"by  far  the  prettiest  place  near  Barchester.  I  wonder  your 
father  gave  it  up." 

It  was  a  very  pretty  place,  and  now  by  the  deceitful  light 
of  the  moon  looked  twice  larger,  twice  prettier,  twice  more 
antiquely  picturesque  than  it  would  have  done  in  truth-telling 
daylight.  Who  does  not  know  the  air  of  complex  multiplic- 
ity and  the  mysterious  interesting  grace  which  the  moon  al- 
ways lends  to  old  gabled  buildings  half  surrounded,  as  was 
the  hospital,  by  fine  trees !  As  seen  from  the  bridge  on  the 
night  of  which  we  are  speaking,  Mr.  Harding's  late  abode  did 
look  very  lovely ;  and  though  Eleanor  did  not  grieve  at  her 
father's  having  left  it,  she  felt  at  the  moment  an  intense  wish 
that  he  might  be  allowed  to  return. 

"He  is  going  to  return  to  it  almost  immediately,  is  he  not  ?" 
asked  Bertie. 

Eleanor  made  no  immediate  reply.  Many  such  a  question 
passes  unanswered,  without  the  notice  of  the  questioner ;  but 
such  was  not  now  the  case.  They  all  remained  silent  as 
though  expecting  her  to  reply,  and  after  a  moment  or  two, 
Charlotte  said,  "I  believe  it  is  settled  that  Mr.  Harding  re- 
turns to  the  hospital,  is  it  not?" 

169 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  it  is  settled  yet,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"But  it  must  be  a  matter  of  course,"  said  Bertie ;  "that  is,  if 
your  father  wishes  it;  who  else  on  earth  could  hold  it  after 
what  has  occurred?" 

Eleanor  quietly  made  her  companion  understand  that  the 
matter  was  one  which  she  could  not  discuss  in  the  present 
company ;  and  then  they  passed  on ;  Charlotte  said  she  would 
go  a  short  way  up  the  hill  out  of  the  town  so  as  to  look  back 
upon  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  as  Eleanor  lent  upon 
Bertie's  arm  for  assistance  in  the  walk,  she  told  him  how  the 
matter  stood  between  her  father  and  the  bishop. 

"And,  he,"  said  Bertie,  pointing  on  to  Mr.  Slope,  "what 
part  does  he  take  in  it?" 

Eleanor  explained  how  Mr.  Slope  had  at  first  endeavoured 
to  tyrannise  over  her  father,  but  how  he  had  latterly  come 
round,  and  done  all  he  could  to  talk  the  bishop  over  in  Mr. 
Harding's  favour.  "But  my  father,"  said  she,  "is  hardly  in- 
clined to  trust  him ;  they  all  say  he  is  so  arrogant  to  the  old 
clergymen  of  the  city." 

"Take  my  word  for  it,"  said  Bertie,  "your  father  is  right. 
If  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  that  man  is  both  arrogant 
and  false." 

They  strolled  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  returned 
through  the  fields  by  a  footpath  which  leads  by  a  small 
wooden  bridge,  or  rather  a  plank  with  a  rustic  rail  to  it,  over 
the  river  to  the  other  side  of  the  cathedral  from  that  at  which 
they  had  started.  They  had  thus  walked  round  the  bishop's 
grounds,  through  which  the  river  runs,  and  round  the  cathe- 
dral and  adjacent  fields,  and  it  was  past  eleven  before  they 
reached  the  doctor's  door. 

"It  is  very  late,"  said  Eleanor,  "it  will  be  a  shame  to  dis- 
turb your  mother  again  at  such  an  hour." 

"Oh,"  said  Charlotte,  laughing,  "you  won't  disturb 
mamma ;  I  dare  say  she  is  in  bed  by  this  time,  and  Madeline 
would  be  furious  if  you  did  not  come  in  and  see  her.  Come, 
Bertie,  take  Mrs.  Bold's  bonnet  from  her." 

They  went  up  stairs,  and  found  the  signora  alone,  reading. 
She  looked  somewhat  sad  and  melancholy,  but  not  more  so 
perhaps  than  was  sufficient  to  excite  additional  interest  in  the 

170 


MR.    ARABIN. 

bosom  of  Mr.  Slope;  and  she  was  soon  deep  in  whispered 
intercourse  with  that  happy  gentleman,  who  was  allowed  to 
find  a  resting-place  on  her  sofa.  The  signora  had  a  way  of 
whispering  that  was  peculiarly  her  own,  and  was  exactly  the 
reverse  of  that  which  prevails  among  great  tragedians.  The 
great  tragedian  hisses  out  a  positive  whisper,  made  with 
bated  breath,  and  produced  by  inarticulated  tongue-formed 
sounds,  but  yet  he  is  audible  through  the  whole  house.  The 
signora  however  used  no  hisses,  and  produced  all  her  words 
in  a  clear  silver  tone,  but  they  could  only  be  heard  by  the 
ear  into  which  they  were  poured. 

Charlotte  hurried  and  skurried  about  the  room  hither  and 
thither,  doing,  or  pretending  to  do,  many  things ;  and  then 
saying  something  about  seeing  her  mother,  ran  up  stairs. 
Eleanor  was  thus  left  alone  with  Bertie,  and  she  hardly  felt 
an  hour  fly  by  her.  To  give  Bertie  his  due  credit,  he  could 
not  have  played  his  cards  better.  He  did  not  make  love  to 
her,  nor  sigh,  nor  look  languishing ;  but  he  was  amusing  and 
familiar,  yet  respectful ;  and  when  he  left  Eleanor  at  her  own 
door  at  one  o'clock,  which  he  did  by  the  bye  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  now  jealous  Slope,  she  thought  that  he  was  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  men,  and  the  Stanhopes  decidedly  the 
most  agreeable  family,  that  she  had  ever  met. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

MR,    ARABIN. 

THE  Rev.  Francis  Arabin,  fellow  of  Lazarus,  late  profes- 
sor of  poetry  at  Oxford,  and  present  vicar  of  St. 
Ewold,  in  the  diocese  of  Barchester,  must  now  be  introduced 
personally  to  the  reader.  And  as  he  will  fill  a  conspicuous 
place  in  the  volume,  it  is  desirable  that  he  should  be  made 
to  stand  before  the  reader's  eye  by  the  aid  of  such  portraiture 
as  the  author  is  able  to  produce. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  no  mental  method  of  daguerreo- 
type or  photography  has  yet  been  discovered,  by  which  the 
characters  of  men  can  be  reduced  to  writing  and  put  into 
grammatical  language  with  an  unerring  precision  of  truthful 

171 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

description.  How  often  does  the  novelist  feel,  ay,  and  the 
historian  also  and  the  biographer,  that  he  has  conceived  with- 
in his  mind  and  accurately  depicted  on  the  tablet  of  his  brain 
the  full  character  and  personage  of  a  man,  and  that  neverthe- 
less, when  he  flies  to  pen  and  ink  to  perpetuate  the  portrait, 
his  words  forsake,  elude,  disappoint,  and  play  the  deuce  with 
him,  till  at  the  end  of  a  dozen  pages  the  man  described  has 
no  more  resemblance  to  the  man  conceived  than  the  sign- 
board at  the  corner  of  the  street  has  to  the  Duke  of  Cam- 
bridge ? 

And  yet  such  mechanical  descriptive  skill  would  hardly 
give  more  satisfaction  to  the  reader  than  the  skill  of  the  pho- 
tographer does  to  the  anxious  mother  desirous  to  possess  an 
absolute  duplicate  of  her  beloved  child.  The  likeness  is  in- 
deed true ;  but  it  is  a  dull,  dead,  unfeeling,  inauspicious  like- 
ness. The  face  is  indeed  there,  and  those  looking  at  it  will 
know  at  once  whose  image  it  is ;  but  the  owner  of  the  face 
will  not  be  proud  of  the  resemblance. 

There  is  no  royal  road  to  learning ;  no  short  cut  to  the  ac- 
quirement of  any  valuable  art.  Let  photographers  and  da- 
guerreotypers  do  what  they  will,  and  improve  as  they  may 
with  further  skill  on  that  which  skill  has  already  done,  they 
will  never  achieve  a  portrait  of  the  human  face  divine.  Let 
biographers,  novelists,  and  the  rest  of  us  groan  as  we  may 
imder  the  burdens  which  we  so  often  feel  too  heavy  for  our 
shoulders,  we  must  either  bear  them  up  like  men,  or  own 
ourselves  too  weak  for  the  work  we  have  undertaken.  There 
is  no  way  of  writing  well  and  also  of  writing  easily. 

Labor  omnia  vincit  improbtts.  Such  should  be  the  chosen 
motto  of  every  labourer,  and  it  may  be  that  labour, 
if  adequately  enduring,  may  suffice  at  last  to  produce 
even  some  not  untrue  resemblance  of  the  Rev.  Francis 
Arabin. 

Of  his  doings  in  the  world,  and  of  the  sort  of  fame  which  he 
has  achieved,  enough  has  been  already  said.  It  has  also  been 
said  that  he  is  forty  years  of  age,  and  still  unmarried.  He 
was  the  younger  son  of  a  country  gentleman  of  small  fortune 
in  the  north  of  England.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to  Win- 
chester, and  was  intended  by  his  father  for  New  College ;  but 
though  studious  as  a  boy,  he  was  not  studious  within  the  pre- 

172 


MR.    ARABIN. 

scribed  limits ;  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  he  left  school  with 
a  character  for  talent,  but  without  a  scholarship.  All  that 
he  had  obtained,  over  and  above  the  advantage  of  his  char- 
acter, was  a  gold  medal  for  English  verse,  and  hence  was  de- 
rived a  strong  presumption  on  the  part  of  his  friends  that  he 
was  destined  to  add  another  name  to  the  imperishable  list  of 
English  poets. 

From  Winchester  he  went  to  Oxford,  and  was  entered  as  a 
commoner  at  Balliol.  Here  his  special  career  very  soon  com- 
menced. He  utterly  eschewed  the  society  of  fast  men,  gave 
no  wine  parties,  kept  no  horses,  rowed  no  boats,  joined  no 
rows,  and  was  the  pride  of  his  college  tutor.  Such  at  least 
was  his  career  till  he  had  taken  his  little  go ;  and  then  he 
commenced  a  course  of  action  which,  though  not  less  credi- 
table to  himself  as  a  man,  was  hardly  so  much  to  the  taste  of 
the  tutor.  He  became  a  member  of  a  vigorous  debating  so- 
ciety, and  rendered  himself  remarkable  there  for  humorous 
energy.  Though  always  in  earnest,  yet  his  earnestness  was 
always  droll.  To  be  true  in  his  ideas,  unanswerable  in  his 
syllogisms,  and  just  in  his  aspirations  was  not  enough  for 
him.  He  had  failed,  failed  in  his  own  opinion  as  well  as  that 
of  others  when  others  came  to  know  him,  if  he  could  not  re- 
duce the  arguments  of  his  opponents  to  an  absurdity,  and 
conquer  both  by  wit  and  reason.  To  say  that  his  object  was 
ever  to  raise  a  laugh,  would  be  most  untrue.  He  hated  such 
common  and  unnecessary  evidence  of  satisfaction  on  the  part 
of  his  hearers.  A  joke  that  required  to  be  laughed  at  was, 
with  him,  not  worth  uttering.  He  could  appreciate  by  a 
keener  sense  than  that  of  his  ears  the  success  of  his  wit,  and 
would  see  in  the  eyes  of  his  auditory  whether  or  no  he  was 
understood  and  appreciated. 

He  had  been  a  religious  lad  before  he  left  school.  That  is, 
he  had  addicted  himself  to  a  party  in  religion,  and  having 
done  so  had  received  that  benefit  which  most  men  do  who 
become  partisans  in  such  a  cause.  We  are  much  too  apt  to 
look  at  schism  in  our  church  as  an  unmitigated  evil.  Moder- 
ate schism,  if  there  may  be  such  a  thing,  at  any  rate  calls  at- 
tention to  the  subject,  draws  in  supporters  who  would  other- 
wise have  been  inattentive  to  the  matter,  and  teaches  men  to 
think  upon  religion.     How  great  an  amount  of  good  of  this 

173 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

description  has  followed  that  movement  in  the  Church  of 
England  which  commenced  with  the  publication  of  Froude's 
Remains ! 

As  a  boy  young  Arabin  took  up  the  cudgels  on  the  side  of 
the  Tractarians,  and  at  Oxford  he  sat  for  a  while  at  the  feet 
of  the  great  Newman.  To  this  cause  he  lent  all  his  facul- 
ties. For  it  he  concocted  verses,  for  it  he  made  speeches,  for 
it  he  scintillated  the  brightest  sparks  of  his  quiet  wit.  For  it 
he  ate  and  drank  and  dressed,  and  had  his  being.  In  due 
process  of  time  he  took  his  degree,  and  wrote  himself  B.A., 
but  he  did  not  do  so  with  any  remarkable  amount  of  academ- 
ical eclat.  He  had  occupied  himself  too  much  with  high 
church  matters,  and  the  polemics,  politics,  and  outward  dem- 
onstrations usually  concurrent  with  high  churchmanshLp,  to 
devote  himself  with  sufficient  vigour  to  the  acquisition  of  a 
double  first.  He  was  not  a  double  first,  nor  even  a  first  class 
man ;  but  he  revenged  himself  on  the  university  by  putting 
firsts  and  double  firsts  out  of  fashion  for  the  year,  and  laugh- 
ing down  a  species  of  pedantry  which  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three  leaves  no  room  in  a  man's  mind  for  graver  subjects  than 
conic  sections  or  Greek  accents. 

Greek  accents,  however,  and  conic  sections  were  esteemed 
necessaries  at  Balliol,  and  there  was  no  admittance  there  for 
Mr.  Arabin  within  the  list  of  its  fellows.  Lazarus,  however, 
the  richest  and  most  comfortable  abode  of  Oxford  dons, 
opened  its  bosom  to  the  young  champion  of  a  church  militant. 
Mr.  Arabin  was  ordained,  and  became  a  fellow  soon  after 
taking  his  degree,  and  shortly  after  that  was  chosen  professor 
of  poetry. 

And  now  came  the  moment  of  his  great  danger.  After 
many  mental  struggles,  and  an  agony  of  doubt  which  may 
be  well  surmised,  the  great  prophet  of  the  Tractarians  con- 
fessed himself  a  Roman  Catholic.  Mr.  Newman  left  the 
Church  of  England,  and  with  him  carried  many  a  waverer. 
He  did  not  carry  off  Mr.  Arabin,  but  the  escape  which  that 
gentleman  had  was  a  very  narrow  one.  He  left  Oxford  for  a 
while  that  he  might  meditate  in  complete  peace  on  the  step 
which  appeared  to  him  to  be  all  but  unavoidable,  and  shut 
himself  up  in  a  little  village  on  the  seashore  of  one  of  our 
remotest  counties,  that  he  might  learn  by  communing  with  his 

174 


MR.   ARABIN. 

own  soul  whether  or  no  he  could  with  a  safe  conscience  re- 
main within  the  pale  of  his  mother  church. 

Things  would  have  gone  badly  with  him  there  had  he  been 
left  entirely  to  himself.  Everything  was  against  him :  all  his 
worldly  interests  required  him  to  remain  a  Protestant ;  and  he 
looked  on  his  worldly  interests  as  a  legion  of  foes,  to  get  the 
better  of  whom  was  a  point  of  extremest  honour.  In  his 
then  state  of  ecstatic  agony  such  a  conquest  would  have  cost 
him  little ;  he  could  easily  have  thrown  away  all  his  livelihood  ; 
but  it  cost  him  much  to  get  over  the  idea  that  by  choosing  the 
Church  of  England  he  should  be  open  in  his  own  mind  to  the 
charge  that  he  had  been  led  to  such  a  choice  by  unworthy 
motives.  Then  his  heart  was  against  him :  he  loved  with  a 
strong  and  eager  love  the  man  who  had  hitherto  been  his 
guide,  and  yearned  to  follow  his  footsteps.  His  tastes  were 
against  him :  the  ceremonies  and  pomps  of  the  Church  of 
Rome,  their  august  feasts  and  solemn  fasts,  invited  his  im- 
agination and  pleased  his  eye.  His  flesh  was  against  him : 
how  great  an  aid  would  it  be  to  a  poor,  weak,  wavering  man 
to  be  constrained  to  high  moral  duties,  self-denial,  obedience, 
and  chastity  by  laws  which  were  certain  in  their  enactments, 
and  not  to  be  broken  without  loud,  palpable,  unmistakable 
sin !  Then  his  faith  was  against  him :  he  required  to  believe 
so  much ;  panted  so  eagerly  to  give  signs  of  his  belief ;  deemed 
it  so  insufficient  to  wash  himself  simply  in  the  waters  of  Jor- 
dan ;  that  some  great  deed,  such  as  that  of  forsaking  every- 
thing for  a  true  church,  had  for  him  allurements  almost  past 
withstanding. 

Mr.  Arabin  was  at  this  time  a  very  young  man,  and  when 
he  left  Oxford  for  his  far  retreat  was  much  too  confident  in 
his  powers  of  fence,  and  too  apt  to  look  down  on  the  ordinary 
sense  of  ordinary  people,  to  expect  aid  in  the  battle  that  he 
had  to  fight  from  any  chance  inhabitants  of  the  spot  which 
he  had  selected.  But  Providence  was  good  to  him  ;  and  there, 
in  that  all  but  desolate  place,  on  the  storm-beat  shore  of  that 
distant  sea,  he  met  one  who  gradually  calmed  his  mind,  quiet- 
ed his  imagination,  and  taught  him  something  of  a  Christian's 
duty.  When  Mr.  Arabin  left  Oxford,  he  was  inclined  to 
look  upon  the  rural  clergymen  of  most  English  parishes  al- 
most with  contempt.     It  was  his  ambition,  should  he  remain 

175 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

within  the  fold  of  their  church,  to  do  somewhat  towards  re- 
deeming and  rectifying  their  inferiority,  and  to  assist  in  in- 
fusing energy  and  faith  into  the  hearts  of  Christian  ministers, 
who  were,  as  he  thought,  too  often  satisfied  to  go  through 
hfe  without  much  show  of  either. 

And  yet  it  was  from  such  a  one  that  Mr.  Arabin  in  his 
extremest  need  received  that  aid  which  he  so  much  required. 
It  was  from  the  poor  curate  of  a  small  Cornish  parish  that 
he  first  learnt  to  know  that  the  highest  laws  for  the  govern- 
ance of  a  Christian's  duty  must  act  from  within  and  not  from 
without ;  that  no  man  can  become  a  serviceable  servant  solely 
by  obedience  to  written  edicts ;  and  that  the  safety  which  he 
was  .about  to  seek  within  the  gates  of  Rome  was  no  other 
than  the  selfish  freedom  from  personal  danger  which  the  bad 
soldier  attempts  to  gain  who  counterfeits  illness  on  the  eve 
of  battle. 

Mr.  Arabin  returned  to  Oxford  a  humbler  but  a  better  and 
a  happier  man ;  and  from  that  time  forth  he  put  his  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  as  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  for  which  he  had 
been  educated.  The  intercourse  of  those  among  whom  he 
familiarly  lived  kept  him  staunch  to  the  principles  of  that 
system  of  the  Church  to  which  he  had  always  belonged.  Since 
his  severance  from  Mr.  Newman,  no  one  had  had  so  strong 
an  influence  over  him  as  the  head  of  his  college.  During  the 
time  of  his  expected  apostacy,  Dr.  Gwynne  had  not  felt  much 
predisposition  in  favour  of  the  young  fellow.  Though  a 
High  Churchman  himself  within  moderate  limits,  Dr. 
Gwynne  felt  no  sympathy  Avith  men  who  could  not  satisfy 
their  faiths  with  the  Thirty-nine  Articles.  He  regarded  the 
enthusiasm  of  such  as  Newman  as  a  state  of  mind  more 
nearly  allied  to  madness  than  to  religion;  and  when  he  saw  it 
evinced  by  very  young  men,  was  inclined  to  attribute  a  good 
deal  of  it  to  vanity.  Dr.  Gwynne  himself,  though  a  religious 
man,  was  also  a  thoroughly  practical  man  of  the  world,  and 
he  regarded  with  no  favourable  eye  the  tenets  of  any  one  who 
looked  on  the  two  things  as  incompatible.  When  he  found 
that  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  half  Roman,  he  beean  to  resrret  all  he 
had  done  towards  bestowing  a  fellowship  on  so  unworthy  a 
recipient ;  and  when  again  he  learnt  that  Mr.  Arabin  would 
probably  complete  his  journey  to  Rome,  he  regarded  with 

176 


MR.    ARABIN. 

some  satisfaction  the  fact  that  in  such  case  the  fellowship 
would  be  again  vacant. 

When,  however,  Mr.  Arabin  returned  and  professed  him- 
self a  confirmed  Protestant,  the  master  of  Lazarus  again 
opened  his  arms  to  him,  and  gradually  he  became  the  pet  of 
the  college.  For  some  little  time  he  was  saturnine,  silent, 
and  unwilling  to  take  any  prominent  part  in  university  broils ; 
but  gradually  his  mind  recovered,  or  rather  made,  its  tone, 
and  he  became  known  as  a  man  always  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  opposition  to  anything  that 
savoured  of  an  evangelical  bearing.  He  was  great  in  ser- 
mons, great  on  platforms,  great  at  after  dinner  conversations, 
and  always  pleasant  as  well  as  great.  He  took  delight  in 
elections,  served  on  committees,  opposed  tooth  and  nail  all 
projects  of  university  reform,  and  talked  jovially  over  his 
glass  of  port  of  the  ruin  to  be  anticipated  by  the  Church,  and 
of  the  sacrilege  daily  committed  by  the  Whigs.  The  ordeal 
through  which  he  had  gone,  in  resisting  the  blandishments 
of  the  lady  of  Rome,  had  certainly  done  much  towards  the 
strengthening  of  his  character.  Although  in  small  and  out- 
ward matters  he  was  self-confident  enough,  nevertheless  in 
things  afifecting  the  inner  man  he  aimed  at  a  humility  of 
spirit  which  would  never  have  been  attractive  to  him  but  for 
that  visit  to  the  coast  of  Cornwall.  This  visit  he  now  re- 
peated every  year. 

Such  is  an  interior  view  of  Mr.  Arabin  at  the  time  when 

he  accepted  the  living  of  St.  Ewold.     Exteriorly,  he  was  not 

a  remarkable  person.     He  was  above  the  middle  height,  well 

made,  and  very  active.     His  hair,  which  had  been  jet  black, 

was  now  tinged  with  gray,  but  his  face  bore  no  sign  of  years. 

It  would  perhaps  be  wrong  to  say  that  he  was  handsome,  but 

his  face  was,  nevertheless,  pleasant  to  look  upon.     The  cheek 

bones  were  rather  too  high  for  beauty,  and  the  formation  of 

the  forehead  too  massive  and  heavy :  but  the  eyes,  nose,  and 

mouth  were  perfect.     There  was  a  continual  play  of  lambent 

fire  about  his  eyes,  which  gave  promise  of  either  pathos  or 

humour  whenever  he  essayed  to  speak,  and  that  promise  was 

rarely  broken.     There  was   a  gentle  plav  about  his   mouth 

which  declared  that  his  wit  never  descended  to  sarcasm,  and 

that  there  was  no  ill-nature  in  his  repartee. 
12  177 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Arabin  was  a  popular  man  among  women,  but  more 
so  as  a  general  than  a  special  favourite.  Living  as  a  fellow 
at  Oxford,  marriage  with  him  had  been  out  of  the  question, 
and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he  had  ever  allowed  his  heart 
to  be  touched.  Though  belonging  to  a  church  in  which  celi- 
bacy is  not  the  required  lot  of  its  ministers,  he  had  come  to 
regard  himself  as  one  of  those  clergymen  to  whom  to  be  a 
bachelor  is  almost  a  necessity.  He  had  never  looked  for 
parochial  duty,  and  his  career  at  Oxford  was  utterly  incom- 
patible with  such  domestic  joys  as  a  wife  and  nursery.  He 
looked  on  women,  therefore,  in  the  same  light  that  one  sees 
them  regarded  by  many  Romish  priests.  He  liked  to  have 
near  him  that  which  was  pretty  and  amusing,  but  women 
generally  were  little  more  to  him  than  children.  He  talked  to 
them  without  putting  out  all  his  powers,  and  listened  to  them 
without  any  idea  that  what  he  should  hear  from  them  could 
either  actuate  his  conduct  or  influence  his  opinion. 

Such  was  Mr.  Arabin,  the  new  vicar  of  St.  Ewold,  who 
is  going  to  stay  with  the  Grantlys,  at  Plumstead  Epis- 
copi. 

Mr.  Arabin  reached  Plumstead  the  day  before  Mr.  Harding 
and  Eleanor,  and  the  Grantly  family  were  thus  enabled  to 
make  his  acquaintance  and  discuss  his  qualifications  before 
the  arrival  of  the  other  guests.  Griselda  was  surprised  to 
find  that  he  looked  so  young;  but  she  told  Florinda,  her 
younger  sister,  when  they  had  retired  for  the  night,  that  he 
did  not  talk  at  all  like  a  young  man :  and  she  decided,  with 
the  authority  that  seventeen  has  over  sixteen,  that  he  was  not 
at  all  nice,  although  his  eyes  were  lovely.  As  usual,  sixteen 
implicitly  acceded  to  the  dictum  of  seventeen  in  such  a  matter, 
and  said  that  he  certainly  was  not  nice.  They  then  branched 
ofif  on  the  relative  merits  of  other  clerical  bachelors  in  the 
vicinity,  and  both  determined  without  any  feeling  of  jealousy 
between  them  that  a  certain  Rev.  Augustus  Green  was  by 
many  degrees  the  most  estimable  of  the  lot.  The  gentleman 
in  question  had  certainly  much  in  his  favour,  as,  having  a 
comfortable  allowance  from  his  father,  he  could  devote  the 
whole  proceeds  of  his  curacy  to  violet  gloves  and  unexcep- 
tionable neck  ties.  Having  thus  fixedly  resolved  that  the 
new  comer  had  nothing  about  him  to  shake  the  pre-eminence 

178 


MR.   ARABIN. 

of  the  exalted  Green,  the  two  girls  went  to  sleep  in  each 
other's  arms,  contented  with  themselves  and  the  world. 

Mrs.  Grantly  at  first  sight  came  to  much  the  same  conclu- 
sion about  her  husband's  favourite  as  her  daughters  had  done, 
though,  in  seeking  to  measure  his  relative  value,  she  did  not 
compare  him  to  Mr.  Green ;  indeed,  she  made  no  comparison 
by  name  between  him  and  any  one  else ;  but  she  remarked  to 
her  husband  that  one  person's  swans  were  very  often  another 
person's  geese,  thereby  clearly  showing  that  Mr.  Arabin  had 
not  yet  proved  his  qualifications  in  swanhood  to  her  satisfac- 
tion. 

"Well,  Susan,"  said  he,  rather  offended  at  hearing  his 
friend  spoken  of  so  disrespectfully,  "if  you  take  Mr.  Arabin 
for  a  goose,  I  cannot  say  that  I  think  very  highly  of  your 
discrimination." 

"A  goose !  No,  of  course,  he's  not  a  goose.  I've  no  doubt 
he's  a  very  clever  man.  But  you're  so  matter-of-fact,  arch- 
deacon, when  it  suits  your  purpose,  that  one  can't  trust  one- 
self to  any  fagon  de  parler.  I've  no  doubt  Mr.  Arabin  is  a 
very  valuable  man — at  Oxford,  and  that  he'll  be  a  good  vicar 
at  St.  Ewold.  All  I  mean  is,  that  having  passed  one  evening 
with  him,  I  don't  find  him  to  be  absolutely  a  paragon.  In 
the  first  place,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  is  a  little  inclined  to  be 
conceited." 

"Of  all  the  men  that  I  know  intimately,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, "Arabin  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  free  from  any 
taint  of  self-conceit.     His  fault  is  that  he's  too  diffident." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  the  lady ;  "only  I  must  own  I  did  not 
find  it  out  this  evening." 

Nothing  further  was  said  about  him.  Dr.  Grantly  thought 
that  his  wife  was  abusing  Mr.  Arabin  merely  because  he  had 
praised  him ;  and  Mrs.  Grantly  knew  that  it  was  useless 
arguing  for  or  against  any  person  in  favour  of  or  in  opposi- 
tion to  whom  the  archdeacon  had  already  pronounced  a 
strong  opinion. 

In  truth  they  were  both  right.  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  diffident 
man  in  social  intercourse  with  those  whom  he  did  not  inti- 
mately know ;  when  placed  in  situations  which  it  was  his  busi- 
ness to  fill,  and  discussing  matters  with  which  it  was  his  duty 
to  be  conversant,  Mr.  Arabin  was  from  habit  brazen-faced 

179 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

enough.  When  standing  on  a  platform  in  Exeter  Hall,  no 
man  would  be  less  mazed  than  he  by  the  eyes  of  the  crowd 
before  him ;  for  such  was  the  work  which  his  profession  had 
called  on  him  to  perform;  but  he  shrank  from  a  strong  ex- 
pression of  opinion  in  general  society,  and  his  doing  so  not 
uncommonly  made  it  appear  that  he  considered  the  company 
not  worth  the  trouble  of  his  energy.  He  was  averse  to  dic- 
tate when  the  place  did  not  seem  to  him  to  justify  dictation; 
and  as  those  subjects  on  which  people  wished  to  hear  him 
speak  were  such  as  he  was  accustomed  to  treat  with  decision, 
he  generally  shunned  the  traps  there  were  laid  to  allure  him 
into  discussion,  and,  by  doing  so,  not  unfrequently  subjected 
himself  to  such  charges  as  those  brought  against  him  by  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

Mr.  Arabin,  as  he  sat  at  his  open  window,  enjoying  the  de- 
licious moonlight  and  gazing  at  the  gray  towers  of  the 
church,  which  stood  almost  within  the  rectory  grounds,  little 
dreamed  that  he  was  the  subject  of  so  many  friendly  or  un- 
friendly criticisms.  Considering  how  much  we  are  all  given 
to  discuss  the  characters  of  others,  and  discuss  them  often 
not  in  the  strictest  spirit  of  charity,  it  is  singular  how  little 
we  are  inclined  to  think  that  others  can  speak  ill-naturedly  of 
us,  and  how  angry  and  hurt  we  are  when  proof  reaches  us 
that  they  have  done  so.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  we 
all  of  us  occasionally  speak  of  our  dearest  friends  in  a  man- 
ner in  which  those  dearest  friends  would  very  little  like  to 
hear  themselves  mentioned ;  and  that  we  nevertheless  expect 
that  our  dearest  friends  shall  invariably  speak  of  us  as  though 
they  were  blind  to  all  our  faults,  but  keenly  alive  to  every 
shade  of  our  virtues. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Arabin  that  he  was  spoken  of  at  all. 
It  seemed  to  him,  when  he  compared  himself  with  his  host, 
that  he  was  a  person  of  so  little  consequence  to  any,  that  he 
was  worth  no  one's  words  or  thoughts.  He  was  utterly 
alone  in  the  world  as  regarded  domestic  ties  and  those  inner 
familiar  relations  which  are  hardly  possible  between  others 
than  husbands  and  wives,  parents  and  children,  or  brothers 
and  sisters.  He  had  often  discussed  with  himself  the  neces- 
sity of  such  bonds  for  a  man's  happiness  in  this  world,  and 
had  generally  satisfied  himself  with  the  answer  that  happiness 

1 80 


MR.    ARABIN. 

in  this  world  is  not  a  necessity.  Herein  he  deceived  himself, 
or  rather  tried  to  do  so.  He,  like  others,  yearned  for  the 
enjoyment  of  whatever  he  saw  enjoyable;  and  though  he  at- 
tempted, with  the  modern  stoicism  of  so  many  Christians,  to 
make  himself  believe  that  joy  and  sorrow  were  matters  which 
here  should  be  held  as  perfectly  indifferent,  these  things  were 
not  indifferent  to  him.  He  was  tired  of  his  Oxford  rooms 
and  his  college  life.  He  regarded  the  wife  and  children  of 
his  friend  with  something  like  envy;  he  all  but  coveted  the 
pleasant  drawing-room,  with  its  pretty  windows  opening  on 
to  lawns  and  flower-beds,  the  apparel  of  the  comfortable 
house,  and — above  all — the  air  of  home  which  encompassed 
it  all. 

It  will  be  said  that  no  time  can  have  been  so  fitted  for  such 
desires  on  his  part  as  this,  when  he  had  just  possessed  himself 
of  a  country  parish,  of  a  living  among  fields  and  gardens,  of 
a  house  which  a  wife  would  grace.  It  is  true  there  was  a 
difiference  between  the  opulence  of  Plumstead  and  the  modest 
economy  of  St.  Ewold ;  but  surely  Mr.  Arabin  was  not  a  man 
to  sigh  after  wealth !  Of  all  men,  his  friends  would  have 
unanimously  declared  he  was  the  last  to  do  so.  But  how 
little  our  friends  know  us!  In  his  period  of  stoical  rejection 
of  this  world's  happiness,  he  had  cast  from  him  as  utter  dross 
all  anxiety  as  to  fortune.  He  had,  as  it  were,  proclaimed 
himself  to  be  indifferent  to  promotion,  and  those  who  chiefly 
admired  his  talents,  and  would  mainly  have  exerted  them- 
selves to  secure  to  them  their  deserved  reward,  had  taken  him 
at  his  word.  And  now,  if  the  truth  must  out,  he  felt  himself 
disappointed — disappointed  not  by  them  but  by  himself.  The 
day-dream  of  his  youth  was  over,  and  at  the  age  of  forty  he 
felt  that  he  was  not  fit  to  work  in  the  spirit  of  an  apostle. 
He  had  mistaken  himself,  and  learned  his  mistake  when  it 
was  past  remedy.  He  had  professed  himself  indifferent  to 
mitres  and  diaconal  residences,  to  rich  livings  and  pleasant 
glebes,  and  now  he  had  to  own  to  himself  that  he  was  sisfhing 
for  the  good  things  of  other  men,  on  whom  in  his  pride  he 
had  ventured  to  look  down. 

Not  for  wealth,  in  its  vulgar  sense,  had  he  ever  sighed ;  not 
for  the  enjoyment  of  rich  thing's  had  he  ever  longed ;  but  for 
the  allotted  share  of  worldly  bliss,  which  a  wife,  and  children, 

i8i 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  happy  home  could  give  him,  for  that  usual  amount  of 
comfort  which  he  had  ventured  to  reject  as  unnecessary  for 
him,  he  did  now  feel  that  he  would  have  been  wiser  to  have 
searched. 

He  knew  that  his  talents,  his  position,  and  his  friends 
would  have  won  for  him  promotion,  had  he  put  himself  in  the 
way  of  winning  it.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he  had  allowed  him- 
self to  be  persuaded  to  accept  a  living  which  would  give  him 
an  income  of  some  300/.  a  year,  should  he,  by  marrying,  throw 
up  his  fellowship.  Such,  at  the  age  of  forty,  was  the  worldly 
result  of  labour,  which  the  world  had  chosen  to  regard  as 
successful.  The  world  also  thought  that  Mr.  Arabin  was, 
in  his  own  estimation,  sufficiently  paid.  Alas !  alas  !  the  world 
was  mistaken ;  and  Mr.  Arabin  was  beginning  to  ascertain 
that  such  was  the  case. 

And  here,  may  I  beg  the  reader  not  to  be  hard  in  his  judg- 
ment upon  this  man.  Is  not  the  state  at  which  he  has  ar- 
rived, the  natural  result  of  efforts  to  reach  that  which  is  not 
the  condition  of  humanity?  Is  not  modern  stoicism,  built 
though  it  be  on  Christianity,  as  great  an  outrage  on  human 
nature  as  was  the  stoicism  of  the  ancients?  The  philosophy 
of  Zeno  was  built  on  true  laws,  but  on  true  laws  misunder- 
stood, and  therefore  misapplied.  It  is  the  same  with  our 
Stoics  here,  who  would  teach  us  that  wealth  and  worldly  com- 
fort and  happiness  on  earth  are  not  worth  the  search.  Alas, 
for  a  doctrine  which  can  find  no  believing  pupils  and  no  true 
teachers ! 

The  case  of  Mr.  Arabin  was  the  more  singular,  as  he  be- 
longed to  a  branch  of  the  Church  of  England  well  inclined 
to  regard  its  temporalities  with  avowed  favour,  and  had 
habitually  lived  with  men  who  were  accustomed  to  much 
worldly  comfort.  But  such  was  his  idiosyncrasy,  that  these 
very  facts  had  produced  within  him.  in  early  life,  a  state  of 
mind  that  was  not  natural  to  him.  He  was  content  to  be  a 
High  Churchman,  if  he  could  be  so  on  principles  of  his  own, 
and  could  strike  out  a  course  showing  a  marked  difference 
from  those  with  whom  he  consorted.  He  was  ready  to  be  a 
partisan  as  long  as  he  was  allowed  to  have  a  course  of  action 
and  of  thought  unlike  that  of  his  partv.  His  party  had  in- 
dulged him,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  his  party  was  right  and 

182 


MR.    ARABIN. 

himself  wrong,  just  when  such  a  conviction  was  too  late  to 
be  of  service  to  him.  He  discovered,  when  such  discovery 
was  no  longer  serviceable,  that  it  would  have  been  worth  his 
while  to  have  worked  for  the  usual  pay  assigned  to  work  in 
this  world,  and  have  earned  a  wife  and  children,  with  a  car- 
riage for  them  to  sit  in ;  to  have  earned  a  pleasant  dining- 
room,  in  which  his  friends  could  drink  his  wine,  and  the 
power  of  walking  up  the  high  street  of  his  country  town,  with 
the  knowledge  that  all  its  tradesmen  would  have  gladly  wel- 
comed him  within  their  doors.  Other  men  arrived  at  those 
convictions  in  their  start  in  life,  and  so  worked  up  to  them. 
To  him  they  had  come  when  they  were  too  late  to  be  of  use. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  man  of  pleasantry ; 
and  it  may  be  thought  that  such  a  state  of  mind  as  that  de- 
scribed, would  be  antagonistic  to  humour.  But  surely  such 
is  not  the  case.  Wit  is  the  outward  mental  casing  of  the 
man,  and  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  inner  mind  of  thoughts 
and  feelings  than  have  the  rich  brocaded  garments  of  the 
priest  at  the  altar  with  the  asceticism  of  the  anchorite  below 
them,  whose  skin  is  tormented  with  sackcloth,  and  whose 
body  is  half  flayed  with  rods.  Nay,  will  not  such  a  one  often 
rejoice  more  than  any  other  in  the  rich  show  of  his  outer 
apparel?  Will  it  not  be  food  for  his  pride  to  feel  that  he 
groans  inwardly,  while  he  shines  outwardly?  So  it  is  with 
the  mental  efforts  which  men  make.  Those  which  they  show 
forth  daily  to  the  world  are  often  the  opposite  of  the  inner 
workings  of  the  spirit. 

In  the  archdeacon's  drawing-room,  Mr.  Arabin  had 
sparkled  with  his  usual  unaffected  brilliancy,  but  when  he  re- 
tired to  his  bed-room,  he  sat  there  sad,  at  his  open  window, 
repining  within  himself  that  he  also  had  no  wife,  no  bairns, 
no  soft  sward  of  lawn  duly  mown  for  him  to  lie  on,  no  herd 
of  attendant  curates,  no  bowings  from  the  banker's  clerks,  no 
rich  rectory.  That  apostleship  that  he  had  thought  of  had 
evaded  his  grasp,  and  he  was  now  only  vicar  of  St.  Ewold's, 
with  a  taste  for  a  mitre.  Truly  he  had  fallen  between  two 
stools. 


183 


BARCHESTER  TOWERS. 

CHAPTER  XXL 

ST.  ewold's  parsonage. 

WHEN  Mr.  Harding  and  Mrs.  Bold  reached  the  rectory 
on  the  following  morning,  the  archdeacon  and  his 
friend  were  at  St.  Ewold's.  They  had  gone  over  that  the 
new  vicar  might  inspect  his  church,  and  be  introduced  to  the 
squire,  and  were  not  expected  back  before  dinner.  Mr. 
Harding  rambled  out  by  himself,  and  strolled,  as  was  his 
wont  at  Plumstead,  about  the  lawn  and  round  the  church ; 
and  as  he  did  so,  the  two  sisters  naturally  fell  into  conversa- 
tion about  Barchester. 

There  was  not  much  sisterly  confidence  between  them. 
Mrs.  Grantly  was  ten  years  older  than  Eleanor,  and  had  been- 
married  while  Eleanor  was  yet  a  child.  They  had  never, 
therefore,  poured  into  each  other's  ears  their  hopes  and  loves ; 
and  now  that  one  was  a  wife  and  the  other  a  widow,  it  was 
not  probable  that  they  would  begin  to  do  so.  They  lived  too 
much  asunder  to  be  able  to  fall  into  that  kind  of  intercourse 
which  makes  confidence  between  sisters  almost  a  necessity ; 
and,  moreover,  that  which  is  so  easy  at  eighteen  is  often  very 
difficult  at  twenty-eight.  Mrs.  Grantly  knew  this,  and  did 
not,  therefore,  expect  confidence  from  her  sister;  and  yet  she 
longed  to  ask  her  whether  in  real  truth  Mr.  Slope  was  agree- 
able to  her. 

It  was  by  no  means  difficult  to  turn  the  conversation  to  Mr. 
Slope.  That  gentleman  had  become  so  famous  at  Barchester, 
had  so  much  to  do  with  all  clergymen  connected  with  the  city, 
and  was  so  specially  concerned  in  the  affairs  of  Mr.  Harding, 
that  it  would  have  been  odd  if  Mr.  Harding's  daughters  had 
not  talked  about  him.  Mrs.  Grantly  was  soon  abusing  him, 
which  she  did  with  her  whole  heart ;  and  Mrs.  Bold  was  near- 
ly as  eager  to  defend  him.  She  positively  disliked  the  man, 
would  have  been  delighted  to  learn  that  he  had  taken  himself 
ofT  so  that  she  should  never  see  him  again,  had  indeed  almost 
a  fear  of  him,  and  yet  she  constantly  found  herself  taking  his 
part.  The  abuse  of  other  people,  and  abuse  of  a  nature  that 
she  felt  to  be  unjust,  imposed  this  necessity  on  her,  and  at 

184 


ST.    EWOLD'S    PARSONAGE. 

last  made  Mr.  Slope's  defence  an  habitual  course  of  argument 
with  her. 

From  Mr.  Slope  the  conversation  turned  to  the  Stanhopes, 
and  Mrs.  Grantly  was  listening  with  some  interest  to  Elea- 
nor's account  of  the  family,  when  it  dropped  out  that  Mr. 
Slope  made  one  of  the  party. 

"What !"  said  the  lady  of  the  rectory,  "was  Mr.  Slope 
there  too?" 

Eleanor  merely  replied  that  such  had  been  the  case. 

"Why,  Eleanor,  he  must  be  very  fond  of  you,  I  think ;  he 
seems  to  follow  you  everywhere." 

Even  this  did  not  open  Eleanor's  eyes.  She  merely  laughed, 
and  said  that  she  imagined  Mr.  Slope  found  other  attraction 
at  Dr.  Stanhope's.  And  so  they  parted.  Mrs.  Grantly  felt 
quite  convinced  that  the  odious  match  would  take  place ;  and 
Mrs.  Bold  as  convinced  that  that  unfortunate  chaplain,  dis- 
agreeable as  he  must  be  allowed  to  be,  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning. 

The  archdeacon  of  course  heard  before  dinner  that  Eleanor 
had  remained  the  day  before  in  Barchester  with  the  view  of 
meeting  Mr.  Slope,  and  that  she  had  so  met  him.  He  re- 
membered how  she  had  positively  stated  that  there  were  to  be 
no  guests  at  the  Stanhopes,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  accuse 
her  of  deceit.  Moreover,  the  fact,  or  rather  presumed  fact, 
of  her  being  deceitful  on  such  a  matter,  spoke  but  too  plainly 
in  evidence  against  her  as  to  her  imputed  crime  of  receiving 
Mr.  Slope  as  a  lover. 

"I  am  afraid  that  anything  we  can  do  will  be  too  late,"  said 
the  archdeacon.  "I  own  I  am  fairly  surprised.  I  never  liked 
your  sister's  taste  with  regard  to  men ;  but  still  I  did  not  give 
her  credit  for ugh  !" 

"And  so  soon,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  who  thought  more, 
perhaps,  of  her  sister's  indecorum  in  having  a  lover  before 
she  had  put  ofif  her  weeds,  than  her  bad  taste  in  having  such  a 
lover  as  Mr.  Slope. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  sorry  to  be  harsh,  or  to  do  any- 
thing that  can  hurt  your  father ;  but,  positively,  neither  that 
man  nor  his  wife  shall  come  within  my  doors." 

Mrs.  Grantly  sighed,  and  then  attempted  to  console  herself 
and  her  lord  by  remarking  that,  after  all,  the  thing  was  not 

185 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

nor  a  block  of  chimneys  that  he  did  not  narrowly  examine; 
all  water-pipes,  flues,  cisterns,  and  sewers  underwent  an  in- 
vestigation ;  and  he  even  descended,  in  the  care  of  his  friend, 
so  far  as  to  bore  sundry  boards  in  the  floors  with  a  bradawl. 

Mr.  Arabin  accompanied  him  through  the  rooms,  trying  to 
look  wise  in  such  domestic  matters,  and  the  other  three  also 
followed.  Mrs.  Grantly  showed  that  she  had  not  herself  been 
priestess  of  a  parish  twenty  years  for  nothing,  and  examined 
the  bells  and  window  panes  in  a  very  knowing  way. 

"You  will,  at  any  rate,  have  a  beautiful  prospect  out  of  your 
own  window,  if  this  is  to  be  your  private  sanctum,"  said 
Eleanor.  She  was  standing  at  the  lattice  of  a  little  room  up 
stairs,  from  which  the  view  certainly  was  very  lovely.  It 
was  from  the  back  of  the  vicarage,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
interrupt  the  eye  between  the  house  and  the  glorious  gray 
pile  of  the  cathedral.  The  intermediate  ground,  however, 
was  beautifully  studded  with  timber.  In  the  immediate  fore- 
ground ran  the  little  river  which  afterwards  skirted  the  city ; 
and,  just  to  the  right  of  the  cathedral,  the  pointed  gables  and 
chimneys  of  Hiram's  Hospital  peeped  out  of  the  elms  which 
encompass  it. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  joining  her.  "I  shall  have  a  beautifully 
complete  view  of  my  adversaries.  I  shall  sit  down  before  the 
hostile  town,  and  fire  away  at  them  at  a  very  pleasant  dis- 
tance. I  shall  just  be  able  to  lodge  a  shot  in  the  hospital, 
should  the  enemy  ever  get  possession  of  it ;  and  as  for  the 
palace,  I  have  it  within  full  range." 

"I  never  saw  anything  like  you  clergymen,"  said  Eleanor ; 
"you  are  always  thinking  of  fighting  each  other." 

"Either  that,"  said  he,  "or  else  supporting  each  other.  The 
pity  is  that  we  cannot  do  the  one  without  the  other.  But  arc 
we  not  here  to  fight  ?  Is  not  ours  a  church  militant  ?  What  is 
all  our  work  but  fighting, and  hard  fighting, if  it  be  well  done?" 

"But  not  with  each  other." 

"That's  as  it  may  be.  The  same  complaint  which  you  make 
of  me  for  battling  with  another  clergyman  of  our  own  church, 
the  Mohammedan  would  make  against  me  for  battling  with 
the  error  of  a  priest  of  Rome.  Yet,  surely.  3^ou  would  not  be 
inclined  to  say  that  I  should  be  wrong  to  do  battle  with  such 
as  him.     A  pagan,  too,  with  his  multiplicity  of  gods,  would 

1 88 


ST.    EWOLD'S    PARSONAGE. 

think  it  equally  odd  that  the  Christian  and  the  Mohammedan 
should  disagree." 

"Ah !  but  you  wage  your  wars  about  trifles  so  bitterly." 
"Wars  about  trifles,"  said  he,  "are  always  bitter,  especially 
among  neighbours.     When  the  differences  are  great,  and  the 
parties   comparative    strangers,   men   quarrel   with   courtesy. 
What  combatants  are  ever  so  eager  as  two  brothers?" 

"But  do  not  such  contentions  bring  scandal  on  the  church  ?" 
"More  scandal  would  fall  on  the  church  if  there  were  no 
such  contentions.  We  have  but  one  way  to  avoid  them — 
that  of  acknowledging  a  common  head  of  our  church,  whose 
word  on  all  points  of  doctrine  shall  be  authoritative.  Such  a 
termination  of  our  difficulties  is  alluring  enough.  It  has 
charms  which  are  irresistible  to  many,  and  all  but  irresistible, 
I  own,  to  me." 

"You  speak  now  of  the  Church  of  Rome?"  said  Eleanor. 
"No,"  said  he,  "not  necessarily  of  the  Church  of  Rome; 
but  of  a  church  with  a  head.  Had  it  pleased  God  to  vouch- 
safe to  us  such  a  church  our  path  would  have  been  easy.  But 
easy  paths  have  not  been  thought  good  for  us."  He  paused 
and  stood  silent  for  a  while,  thinking  of  the  time  when  he  had 
so  nearlv  sacrificed  all  he  had,  his  powers  of  mind,  his  free 
agency,  the  fresh  running  waters  of  his  mind's  fountain,  his 
very  inner  self,  for  an  easy  path  in  which  no  fighting  would 
be  needed ;  and  then  he  continued : — "What  you  say  is  partly 
true;  our  contentions  do  bring  on  us  some  scandal.  The  out- 
er world,  though  it  constantly  reviles  us  for  our  human  in- 
firmities, and  throws  in  our  teeth  the  fact  that  being  clergy- 
men we  are  still  no  more  than  men,  demands  of  us  that  we 
should  do  our  work  with  godlike  perfection.  There  is  noth- 
ing godlike  about  us :  we  differ  from  each  other  with  the 
acerbity  common  to  man — we  triumph  over  each  other  with 
human  frailty — we  allow  differences  on  subjects  of  divine 
origin  to  produce  among  us  antipathies  and  enmities  which 
are  anything  but  divine.  This  is  all  true.  But  what  would 
you  have  in  place  of  it?  There  is  no  infallible  head  for  a 
church  on  earth.  This  dream  of  believing  man  has  been 
tried,  and  we  see  in  Italy  and  in  Spain  what  has  come  of  it. 
Grant  that  there  are  and  have  been  no  bickerings  within  the 
pale  of  the  Pope's  Church.     Such  an  assumption  would  be 

189 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

utterly  untrue;  but  let  us  grant  it,  and  then  let  us  say  which 
church  has  incurred  the  heavier  scandals." 

There  was  a  quiet  earnestness  about  Mr.  Arabin,  as  he 
half  acknowledged  and  half  defended  himself  from  the  charge 
brought  against  him,  which  surprised  Eleanor.  She  had  been 
used  all  her  life  to  listen  to  clerical  discussion ;  but  the  points 
at 'issue  between  the  disputants  had  so  seldom  been  of  more 
than  temporal  significance  as  to  have  left  on  her  mind  no 
feeling  of  reverence  for  such  subjects.  There  had  always 
been  a  hard  worldly  leaven  of  the  love  either  of  income  or  of 
power  in  the  strains  she  had  heard ;  there  had  been  no  pant- 
ing for  the  truth;  no  aspirations  after  religious  purity.  It 
had  always  been  taken  for  granted  by  those  around  her  that 
they  were  indubitably  right,  that  there  was  no  ground  for 
doubt,  that  the  hard  uphill  work  of  ascertaining  what  the 
duty  of  a  clergyman  should  be  had  been  already  accomplished 
in  full ;  and  that  what  remained  for  an  active  miHtant  parson 
to  do,  was  to  hold  his  own  against  all  comers.  Her  father, 
it  is  true,  was  an  exception  to  this ;  but  then  he  was  so  essen- 
tially anti-militant  in  all  things,  that  she  classed  him  in  her 
own  mind  apart  from  all  others.  She  had  never  argued  the 
matter  within  herself,  or  considered  whether  this  common 
tone  was  or  was  not  faulty ;  but  she  was  sick  of  it  without 
knowing  that  she  was  so.  And  now  she  found  to  her  surprise 
and  not  without  a  certain  pleasurable  excitement,  that  this 
new  comer  among  them  spoke  in  a  manner  very  different 
from  that  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

'Tt  is  so  easy  to  condemn,"  said  he,  continuing  the  thread 
of  his  thoughts.  "I  know  no  life  that  must  be  so  delicious 
as  that  of  a  writer  for  newspapers,  or  a  leading  member  of 
the  opposition — to  thunder  forth  accusations  against  men  in 
power ;  show  up  the  worst  side  of  everything  that  is  pro- 
duced ;  to  pick  holes  in  every  coat ;  to  be  indignant,  sarcastic, 
jocose,  moral,  or  supercilious ;  to  damn  with  faint  praise,  or 
crush  with  open  calumny !  What  can  be  so  easy  as  this 
when  the  critic  has  to  be  responsible  for  nothing?  You  con- 
demn what  I  do;  but  put  yourself  in  my  position  and  do  the 
reverse,  and  then  see  if  I  cannot  condemn  you." 

"Oh !  Mr.  Arabin,  I  do  not  condemn  you." 

"Pardon  me,  you  do,  Mrs.  Bold — you  as  one  of  the  world ; 

IQO 


ST.  EWOLD'S  PARSONAGE. 

you  are  now  the  opposition  member;  you  are  now  composing 
your  leading  article,  and  well  and  bitterly  you  do  it.  'Let 
dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite;'  you  fitly  begin  with  an  elegant 
quotation ;  'but  if  we  are  to  have  a  church  at  all,  in  heaven's 
name  let  the  pastors  who  preside  over  it  keep  their  hands 
from  each  other's  throats.  Lawyers  can  live  without  befoul- 
ing each  other's  names ;  doctors  do  not  fight  duels.  Why  is 
it  that  clergymen  alone  should  indulge  themselves  in  such  un- 
restrained liberty  of  abuse  against  each  other?'  and  so  you 
go  on  reviling  us  for  our  ungodly  quarrels,  our  sectarian  pro- 
pensities, and  scandalous  differences.  It  will,  however,  give 
you  no  trouble  to  write  another  article  next  week  in  which 
we,  or  some  of  us,  shall  be  twitted  with  an  unseemly  apathy 
in  matters  of  our  vocation.  It  will  not  fall  on  you  to  recon- 
cile the  discrepancy ;  your  readers  will  never  ask  you  how  the 
poor  parson  is  to  be  urgent  in  season  and  out  of  season,  and 
yet  never  come  in  contact  with  men  who  think  widely  dif- 
ferently from  him.  You,  when  you  condemn  this  foreign 
treaty,  or  that  official  arrangement,  will  have  to  incur  no 
blame  for  the  graver  faults  of  any  different  measure.  It  is 
so  easy  to  condemn ;  and  so  pleasant  too ;  for  eulogy  charms 
no  listeners  as  detraction  does." 

Eleanor  only  half  followed  him  in  his  raillery,  but  she 
caught  his  meaning.  "I  know  I  ought  to  apologise  for  pre- 
suming to  criticise  you,"  she  said ;  "but  I  was  thinking  with 
sorrow  of  the  ill-will  that  has  lately  come  among  us  at  Bar- 
chester,  and  I  spoke  more  freely  than  I  should  have  done." 

"Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  among  men,  are,  like  heaven, 
promises  for  the  future ;"  said  he,  following  rather  his  own 
thoughts  than  hers.  "When  that  prophecy  is  accomplished, 
there  will  no  longer  be  any  need  for  clergymen." 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  the  archdeacon,  whose  voice 
was  heard  from  the  cellar  shouting  to  the  vicar. 

"Arabin,  Arabin," — and  then  turning  to  his  wife,  who  was 
apparently  at  his  elbow — "where  has  he  gone  to?  This  cel- 
lar is  perfectly  abominable.  It  would  be  murder  to  put  a 
bottle  of  wine  into  it  till  it  has  been  roofed,  walled,  and 
floored.  How  on  earth  old  Goodenough  ever  got  on  with  it, 
I  cannot  guess.  But  then  Goodenough  never  had  a  glass  of 
wine  that  any  man  could  drink." 

iqi 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"What  is  it,  archdeacon?"  said  the  vicar,  running  down 
stairs  and  leaving  Eleanor  above  to  her  meditations. 

"This  cellar  must  be  roofed,  walled,  and  floored,"  repeated 
the  archdeacon.  "Now  mind  what  I  say,  and  don't  let  the 
architect  persuade  you  that  it  will  do ;  half  of  these  fellows 
know  nothing  about  wine.  This  place  as  it  is  now  would  be 
damp  and  cold  in  winter,  and  hot  and  muggy  in  summer.  I 
wouldn't  give  a  straw  for  the  best  wine  that  ever  was  vinted, 
after  it  had  lain  here  a  couple  of  years." 

Mr.  Arabin  assented,  and  promised  that  the  cellar  should 
be  reconstructed  according  to  the  archdeacon's  receipt. 

"And,  Arabin,  look  here ;  was  such  an  attempt  at  a  kitchen 
grate  ever  seen?" 

"The  grate  is  really  very  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly ;  "I  am 
sure  the  priestess  won't  approve  of  it,  when  she  is  brought 
home  to  the  scene  of  her  future  duties.  Really,  Mr.  Arabin, 
no  priestess  accustomed  to  such  an  excellent  well  as  that 
above  could  put  up  with  such  a  grate  as  this." 

"If  there  must  be  a  priestess  at  St.  Ewold's  at  all,  Mrs. 
Grantly,  I  think  we  will  leave  her  to  her  well,  and  not  call 
down  her  divine  wrath  on  any  of  the  imperfections  rising 
from  our  human  poverty.  However,  I  own  I  am  amenable 
to  the  attractions  of  a  well-cooked  dinner,  and  the  grate  shall 
certainly  be  changed." 

By  this  time  the  archdeacon  had  again  ascended,  and  was 
now  in  the  dining-room.  "Arabin,"  said  he,  speaking  in  his 
usual  loud  clear  voice,  and  with  that  tone  of  dictation  which 
was  so  common  to  him ;  "you  must  positively  alter  this 
dining-room,  that  is,  remodel  it  altogether ;  look  here,  it  is 
just  sixteen  feet  by  fifteen ;  did  anybody  ever  hear  of  a 
dining-room  of  such  proportions !"  and  the  archdeacon 
stepped  the  room  long-ways  and  cross-ways  with  ponderous 
steps,  as  though  a  certain  amount  of  ecclesiastical  dignity 
could  be  imparted  even  to  such  an  occupation  as  that  by  the 
manner  of  doing  it.  "Barely  sixteen ;  you  may  call  it  a 
square." 

"It  would  do  very  well  for  a  round  table,"  suggested  the 
ex-warden. 

Now  there  was  something  peculiarly  unorthodox  in  the 
archdeacon's  estimation  in  the  idea  of  a  round  table.    He  had 

192 


ST.    EWOLD'S    PARSONAGE. 

always  been  accustomed  to  a  goodly  board  of  decent  length, 
comfortably  elongating  itself  according  to  the  number  of  the 
guests,  nearly  black  with  perpetual  rubbing,  and  as  bright  as 
a  mirror.  Now  round  dinner  tables  are  generally  of  oak,  or 
else  of  such  new  construction  as  not  to  have  acquired  the 
peculiar  hue  which  was  so  pleasing  to  him.  He  connected 
them  with  what  he  called  the  nasty  new  fangled  method  of 
leaving  a  cloth  on  the  table,  as  though  to  warn  people  that 
they  were  not  to  sit  long.  In  his  eyes  there  was  something 
democratic  and  parvenue  in  a  round  table.  He  imagined  that 
dissenters  and  calico-printers  chiefly  used  them,  and  perhaps 
a  few  literary  lions  more  conspicuous  for  their  wit  than  their 
gentility.  He  was  a  little  flurried  at  the  idea  of  such  an 
article  being  introduced  into  the  diocese  by  a  protege  of  his 
own,  and  at  the  instigation  of  his  father-in-law. 

"A  round  dinner-table,"  said  he,  with  some  heat,  "is  the 
most  abominable  article  of  furniture  that  ever  was  invented. 
I  hope  that  Arabin  has  more  taste  than  to  allow  such  a  thing 
in  his  house." 

Poor  Mr.  Harding  felt  himself  completely  snubbed,  and  of 
course  said  nothing  further ;  but  Mr.  Arabin,  who  had  yielded 
submissively  in  the  small  matters  of  the  cellar  and  kitchen 
grate,  found  himself  obliged  to  oppose  reforms*  which  might 
be  of  a  nature  too  expensive  for  his  pocket. 

"But  it  seems  to  me,  archdeacon,  that  I  can't  very  well 
lengthen  the  room  without  pulling  down  the  wall,  and  if  I 
pull  down  the  wall,  I  must  build  it  up  again ;  then  if  I  throw 
out  a  bow  on  this  side,  I  must  do  the  same  on  the  other,  then 
if  I  do  it  for  the  ground  floor,  I  must  carry  it  up  to  the  floor 
above.  That  will  be  putting  a  new  front  to  the  house,  and 
will  cost,  I  suppose,  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds.  The  eccle- 
siastical commissioners  will  hardly  assist  me  when  they  hear 
that  my  grievance  consists  in  having  a  dining-room  only  six- 
teen feet  long." 

The  archdeacon  proceeded  to  explain  that  nothing  would  be 
easier  than  adding  six  feet  to  the  front  of  the  dining-room, 
without  touching  any  other  room  in  the  house.  Such  irregu- 
larities of  construction  in  small  country  houses  were,  he  said, 
rather  graceful  than  otherwise,  and  he  offered  to  pay  for  the 
whole  thing  out  of  his  own  pocket  if  it  cost  more  than  forty 

"  193 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

pounds.  Mr.  Arabin,  however,  was  firm,  and,  although  the 
archdeacon  fussed  and  fumed  about  it,  would  not  give  way. 

Forty  pounds,  he  said,  was  a  matter  of  serious  moment  to 
him,  and  his  friends,  if  under  such  circumstances  they  would 
be  good-natured  enough  to  come  to  him  at  all,  must  put  up 
with  the  misery  of  a  square  room.  He  was  willing  to  com- 
promise matters  by  disclaiming  any  intention  of  having  a 
round  table. 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "what  if  the  priestess  insists  on 
having  both  the  rooms  enlarged?" 

"The  priestess  in  that  case  must  do  it  for  herself,  Mrs. 
Grantly." 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  will  be  well  able  to  do  so,"  replied 
the  lady ;  "to  do  that  and  many  more  wonderful  things.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  the  priestess  of  St.  Ewold,  when  she  does 
come,  won't  come  empty-handed." 

Mr.  Arabin,  however,  did  not  appear  well  inclined  to  enter 
into  speculative  expenses  on  such  a  chance  as  this,  and  there- 
fore, any  material  alterations  in  the  house,  the  cost  of  which 
could  not  fairly  be  made  to  lie  at  the  door  either  of  the  eccle- 
siastical commissioners  or  of  the  estate  of  the  late  incumbent, 
were  tabooed.  With  this  essential  exception,  the  archdeacon 
ordered,  suggested,  and  carried  all  points  before  him  in  a 
manner  very  much  to  his  own  satisfaction.  A  close  observer, 
had  there  been  one  there,  might  have  seen  that  his  wife  had 
been  quite  as  useful  in  the  matter  as  himself.  No  one  knew 
better  than  Mrs.  Grantly  the  appurtenances  necessary  to  a 
comfortable  house.  She  did  not,  however,  think  it  necessary 
to  lay  claim  to  any  of  the  glory  which  her  lord  and  master 
was  so  ready  to  appropriate  as  his  own. 

Having  gone  through  their  work  efifectually  and  system- 
atically, the  party  returned  to  Plumstead  well  satisfied  with 
their  expedition. 


194 


THE   THORNES    OF    ULLATHORNE. 
CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE    THORNES    OF    ULLATHORNE. 

ON  the  following  Sunday  Mr.  Arabin  was  to  read  himself 
in  at  his  new  church.  It  was  agreed  at  the  rectory 
that  the  archdeacon  should  go  over  with  him  and  assist  at  the 
reading-desk,  and  that  Mr.  Harding  should  take  the  arch- 
deacon's duty  at  Plumstead  Church.  Mrs.  Grantly  had  her 
school  and  her  buns  to  attend  to,  and  professed  that  she  could 
not  be  spared;  but  Mrs.  Bold  was  to  accompany  them.  It 
was  further  agreed  also,  that  they  would  lunch  at  the  squire's 
house,  and  return  home  after  the  afternoon  service. 

Wilfred  Thorne,  Esq.,  of  Ullathorne,  was  the  squire  of  St. 
Ewold's ;  or  rather  the  squire  of  Ullathorne ;  for  the  domain 
of  the  modern  landlord  was  of  wider  notoriety  than  the  fame 
of  the  ancient  saint.  He  was  a  fair  specimen  of  what  that 
race  has  come  to  in  our  days,  which  a  century  ago  was,  as 
we  are  told,  fairly  represented  by  Squire  Western.  If  that 
representation  be  a  true  one,  few  classes  of  men  can  have 
made  faster  strides  in  improvement.  Mr.  Thorne,  however, 
was  a  man  possessed  of  quite  a  sufficient  number  of  foibles 
to  lay  him  open  to  much  ridicule.  He  was  still  a  bachelor, 
being  about  fifty,  and  was  not  a  little  proud  of  his  person. 
When  living  at  home  at  Ullathorne  there  was  not  much  room 
for  such  pride,  and  there  therefore  he  always  looked  like  a 
gentleman,  and  like  that  which  he  certainly  was,  the  first  man 
in  his  parish.  But  during,  the  month  or  six  weeks  which  he 
annually  spent  in  London,  he  tried  so  hard  to  look  like  a  great 
man  there  also,  which  he  certainly  was  not,  that  he  was  put 
down  as  a  fool  by  many  at  his  club.  He  was  a  man  of  con- 
siderable literary  attainment  in  a  certain  way  and  on  certain 
subjects.  His  favourite  authors  were  Montaigne  and  Bur- 
ton, and  he  knew  more  perhaps  than  any  other  man  in  his 
own  county,  and  the  next  to  it,  of  the  English  essayists  of  the 
two  last  centuries.  He  possessed  complete  sets  of  the  "Idler." 
the  "Spectator,"  the  "Tatler,"  the  "Guardian,"  and  the 
"Rambler;"  and  would  discourse  by  hours  together  on  the 
superiority  of  such  publications  to  anything  which  has  since 

195 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

been  produced  in  our  Edinburghs  and  Quarterlies.  He  was  a 
great  proficient  in  all  questions  of  genealogy,  and  knew 
enough  of  almost  every  gentleman's  family  in  England  to  say 
of  what  blood  and  lineage  were  descended  all  those  who  had 
any  claim  to  be  considered  as  possessors  of  any  such  luxuries. 
For  blood  and  lineage  he  himself  had  a  most  profound  re- 
spect. He  counted  back  his  own  ancestors  to  some  period 
long  antecedent  to  the  Conquest;  and  could  tell  you,  if  you 
would  listen  to  him,  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  they,  like 
Cedric  the  Saxon,  had  been  permitted  to  hold  their  own 
among  the  Norman  barons.  It  was  not,  according  to  his 
showing,  on  account  of  any  weak  complaisance  on  the  part 
of  his  family  towards  their  Norman  neighbours.  Some  Eal- 
fried  of  Ullathorne  once  fortified  his  own  castle,  and  held 
out,  not  only  that,  but  the  then  existing  cathedral  of  Barches- 
ter  also,  against  one  Geofifrey  De  Burgh,  in  the  time  of  King 
John ;  and  Mr.  Thorne  possessed  the  whole  history  of  the 
siege  written  on  vellum,  and  illuminated  in  a  most  costly  man- 
ner. It  little  signified  that  no  one  could  read  the  writing, 
as,  had  that  been  possible,  no  one  could  have  understood  the 
language.  Mr.  Thorne  could,  however,  give  you  all  the  par- 
ticulars in  good  EngHsh,  and  had  no  objection  to  do  so. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  say  that  he  looked  down  on  men 
whose  families  were  of  recent  date.  He  did  not  do  so.  He 
frequently  consorted  with  such,  and  had  chosen  many  of  his 
friends  from  among  them.  But  he  looked  on  them  as  great 
millionaires  are  apt  to  look  on  those  who  have  small  incomes ; 
as  men  who  have  Sophocles  at  their  fingers'  ends  regard 
those  who  know  nothing  of  Greek..  They  might  doubtless  be 
good  sort  of  people,  entitled  to  much  praise  for  virtue,  very 
admirable  for  talent,  highly  respectable  in  every  way;  but 
they  were  without  the  one  great  good  gift.  Such  was  Mr. 
Thome's  way  of  thinking  on  this  matter ;  nothing  could  atone 
for  the  loss  of  good  blood ;  nothing  could  neutralise  its  good 
effects.  Few  indeed  were  now  possessed  of  it,  but  the  pos- 
session was  on  that  account  the  more  precious.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  hear  Mr.  Thorne  descant  on  this  matter.  Were 
you  in  your  ignorance  to  surmise  that  such  a  one  was  of  a 
good  family  because  the  head  of  his  family  was  a  baronet  of 
an    old    date,    he    would    open    his    eyes    with    a    delightful 

196 


THE   THORNES    OF    ULLATHORNE. 

look  of  affected  surprise,  and  modestly  remind  you  that  bar- 
onetcies only  dated  from  James  I.  He  would  gently  sigh  if 
you  spoke  of  the  blood  of  the  Fitzgeralds  and  De  Burghs ; 
would  hardly  allow  the  claims  of  the  Howards  and  Lowthers ; 
and  has  before  now  alluded  to  the  Talbots  as  a  family  who 
had  hardly  yet  achieved  the  full  honours  of  a  pedigree. 

In  speaking  once  of  a  wide  spread  race  whose  name  had 
received  the  honours  of  three  coronets,  scions  from  which  sat 
for  various  constituencies,  some  one  of  whose  members  had 
been  in  almost  every  cabinet  formed  during  the  present  cen- 
tury, a  brilliant  race  such  as  there  are  few  in  England,  Mr. 
Thorne  had  called  them  all  "dirt."  He  had  not  intended  any 
disrespect  to  these  men.  He  admired  them  in  many  senses, 
and  allowed  them  their  privileges  without  envy.  He  had 
merely  meant  to  express  his  feeling  that  the  streams  which 
ran  through  their  veins  were  not  yet  purified  by  time  to  that 
perfection,  had  not  become  so  genuine  an  ichor,  as  to  be 
worthy  of  being  called  blood  in  the  genealogical  sense. 

When  Mr.  Arabin  was  first  introduced  to  him,  Mr.  Thorne 
had  immediately  suggested  that  he  was  one  of  the  Arabins  of 
Uphill  Stanton.  Mr.  Arabin  replied  that  he  was  a  very  dis- 
tant relative  of  the  family  alluded  to.  To  this  Mr.  Thorne 
surmised  that  the  relationship  could  not  be  very  distant.  Mr. 
Arabin  assured  him  that  it  was  so  distant  that  the  families 
knew  nothing  of  each  other.  Mr.  Thorne  laughed  his  gentle 
laugh  at  this,  and  told  Mr.  Arabin  that  there  was  now  exist- 
ing no  branch  of  his  family  separated  from  the  parent  stock 
at  an  earlier  date  than  the  reign  of  Elizabeth ;  and  that  there- 
fore Mr.  Arabin  could  not  call  himself  distant.  Mr.  Arabin 
himself  was  quite  clearly  an  Arabin  of  Uphill  Stanton. 

"But,"  said  the  vicar,  "Uphill  Stanton  has  been  sold  to  the 
De  Greys,  and  has  been  in  their  hands  for  the  last  fifty  years." 

"And  when  it  has  been  there  one  hundred  and  fifty,  if  it 
unluckily  remain  there  so  long,"  said  Mr.  Thorne,  "your  de- 
scendants will  not  be  a  whit  the  less  entitled  to  describe  them- 
selves as  being  of  the  family  of  Uphill  Stanton.  Thank  God, 
no  De  Grey  can  buy  that — and,  thank  God — no  Arabin,  and 
no  Thorne,  can  sell  it." 

In  politics,  Mr.  Thorne  was  an  unflinching  conservative. 
He  looked  on  those  fifty-three  Trojans,  who,  as  Mr.  Dod  tells 

197 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

us,  censured  free  trade  in  November,  1852,  as  the  only  pa- 
triots left  among  the  public  men  of  England.  When  that 
terrible  crisis  of  free  trade  had  arrived,  when  the  repeal  of  the 
corn  laws  was  carried  by  those  very  men  whom  Mr.  Thorne 
had  hitherto  regarded  as  the  only  possible  saviours  of  his 
country,  he  was  for  a  time  paralysed.  His  country  was  lost ; 
but  that  was  comparatively  a  small  thing.  Other  countries 
had  flourished  and  fallen,  and  the  human  race  still  went  on 
improving  under  God's  providence.  But  now  all  trust  in 
human  faith  must  for  ever  be  at  an  end.  Not  only  must  ruin 
come,  but  it  must  come  through  the  apostasy  of  those  who 
had  been  regarded  as  the  truest  of  true  believers.  Politics 
in  England,  as  a  pursuit  for  gentlemen,  must  be  at  an  end. 
Had  Mr,  Thorne  been  trodden  under  foot  by  a  Whig,  he 
could  have  borne  it  as  a  Tory  and  a  martyr ;  but  to  be  so  ut- 
terly thrown  over  and  deceived  by  those  he  had  so  earnestly 
supported,  so  thoroughly  trusted,  was  more  than  he  could  en- 
dure and  live.  He  therefore  ceased  to  live  as  a  politician,  and 
refused  to  hold  any  converse  with  the  world  at  large  on  the 
state  of  the  country. 

Such  were  Mr.  Thome's  impressions  for  the  first  two  or 
three  years  after  Sir  Robert  Peel's  apostasy;  but  by  degrees 
his  temper,  as  did  that  of  others,  cooled  down.  He  began 
once  more  to  move  about,  to  frequent  the  bench  and  the 
market,  and  to  be  seen  at  dinners,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
some  of  those  who  had  so  cruelly  betrayed  him.  It  was  a 
necessity  for  him  to  live,  and  that  plan  of  his  for  avoiding 
the  world  did  not  answer.  He,  however,  and  others  around 
him  who  still  maintained  the  same  staunch  principles  of  pro- 
tection— men  like  himself,  who  were  too  true  to  flinch  at  the 
cry  of  a  mob — had  their  own  way  of  consoling  themselves. 
They  were,  and  felt  themselves  to  be,  the  only  true  deposita- 
ries left  of  certain  Eleusinian  mysteries,  of  certain  deep  and 
wondrous  services  of  worship  by  which  alone  the  gods  could 
be  rightly  approached.  To  them  and  them  only  was  it  now 
given  to  know  these  things,  and  to  perpetuate  them,  if  that 
might  still  be  done,  by  the  careful  and  secret  education  of 
their  children. 

We  have  read  how  private  and  peculiar  forms  of  worship 
have  been  carried  on  from  age  to  age  in  families,  which  to 

198 


THE   THORNES    OF   ULLATHORNE. 

the  outer  world  have  apparently  adhered  to  the  services  of 
some  ordinary  church.  And  so  by  degrees  it  was  with  Mr. 
Thorne.  He  learnt  at  length  to  listen  calmly  while  protec- 
tion was  talked  of  as  a  thing  dead,  although  he  knew  within 
himself  that  it  was  still  quick  with  a  mystic  life.  Nor  was  he 
without  a  certain  pleasure  that  such  knowledge  though  given 
to  him  should  be  debarred  from  the  multitude.  He  became 
accustomed  to  hear,  even  among  country  gentlemen,  that  free 
trade  was  after  all  not  so  bad,  and  to  hear  this  without  dis- 
pute, although  conscious  within  himself  that  everything  good 
in  England  had  gone  with  his  old  palladium.  He  had  within 
him  something  of  the  feeling  of  Cato,  who  gloried  that  he 
could  kill  himself  because  Romans  were  no  longer  worthy  of 
their  name.  Mr.  Thorne  had  no  thought  of  killing  himself, 
being  a  Christian,  and  still  possessing  his  4000/.  a  year;  but 
the  feeling  was  not  on  that  account  the  less  comfortable. 

Mr.  Thorne  was  a  sportsman,  and  had  been  active  though 
not  outrageous  in  his  sports.  Previous  to  the  great  downfall 
of  politics  in  his  county,  he  had  supported  the  hunt  by  every 
means  in  his  power.  He  had  preserved  game  till  no  goose 
or  turkey  could  show  a  tail  in  the  parish  of  St.  Ewold's.  He 
had  planted  gorse  covers  with  more  care  than  oaks  and 
larches.  He  had  been  more  anxious  for  the  comfort  of  his 
foxes  than  of  his  ewes  and  lambs.  No  meet  had  been  more 
popular  than  Ullathorne ;  no  man's  stables  had  been  more 
liberally  open  to  the  horses  of  distant  men  than  I\Ir.  Thome's ; 
no  man  had  said  more,  written  more,  or  done  more  to  keep 
the  club  up.  The  theory  of  protection  could  expand  itself  so 
thoroughly  in  the  practices  of  a  county  hunt !  But  when  the 
great  ruin  came ;  when  the  noble  master  of  the  Barsetshire 
hounds  supported  the  recreant  minister  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  and  basely  surrendered  his  truth,  his  manhood,  his 
friends,  and  his  honour  for  the  hope  of  a  garter,  then  Mr. 
Thorne  gave  up  the  hunt.  He  did  not  cut  his  covers,  for  that 
would  not  have  been  the  act  of  a  gentleman.  He  did  not  kill 
his  foxes,  for  that  according  to  his  light  would  have  been 
murder.  He  did  not  say  that  his  covers  should  not  be  drawn, 
or  his  earths  stopped,  for  that  would  have  been  illegal  accord- 
ing to  the  by-laws  prevailing  among  country  gentlemen.  But 
he  absented  himself  from  home  on  the  occasion  of  every  meet 

199 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

at  Ullathorne,  left  the  covers  to  their  fate,  and  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  take  his  pink  coat  out  of  the  press,  or  his  hunt- 
ers out  of  his  stable.  This  lasted  for  two  years,  and  then 
by  degrees  he  came  round.  He  first  appeared  at  a  neighbour- 
ing meet  on  a  pony,  dressed  in  his  shooting  coat,  as  though 
he  had  trotted  in  by  accident ;  then  he  walked  up  one  morn- 
ing on  foot  to  see  his  favourite  gorse  drawn,  and  when  his 
groom  brought  his  mare  out  by  chance,  he  did  not  refuse  to 
mount  her.  He  was  next  persuaded,  by  one  of  the  immortal 
fifty-three,  to  bring  his  hunting  materials  over  to  the  other 
side  of  the  county,  and  take  a  fortnight  with  the  hounds  there ; 
and  so  gradually  he  returned  to  his  old  life.  But  in  hunting 
as  in  other  things  he  was  only  supported  by  an  inward  feeling 
of  mystic  superiority  to  those  with  whom  he  shared  the  com- 
mon breath  of  outer  life. 

Mr.  Thorne  did  not  live  in  solitude  at  Ullathorne.  He  had 
a  sister,  who  was  ten  years  older  than  himself,  and  who  par- 
ticipated in  his  prejudices  and  feelings  so  strongly,  that  she 
was  a  living  caricature  of  all  his  foibles.  She  would  not  open 
a  modern  quarterly,  did  not  choose  to  see  a  magazine  in  her 
drawing-room,  and  would  not  have  polluted  her  fingers  with 
a  shred  of  the  "Times"  for  any  consideration.  She  spoke  of 
Addison,  Swift,  and  Steele,  as  though  they  were  still  living, 
regarded  De  Foe  as  the  best  known  novelist  of  his  country, 
and  thought  of  Fielding  as  a  young  but  meritorious  novice 
in  the  fields  of  romance.  In  poetry,  she  was  familiar  with 
names  as  late  as  Dryden,  and  had  once  been  seduced  into 
reading  the  "Rape  of  the  Lock ;"  but  she  regarded  Spenser 
as  the  purest  type  of  her  country's  literature  in  this  line. 
Genealogy  was  her  favourite  insanity.  Those  things  which 
are  the  pride  of  most  genealogists  were  to  her  contemptible. 
Arms  and  mottoes  set  her  beside  herself.  Ealfried  of  Ulla- 
thorne had  wanted  no  motto  to  assist  him  in  cleaving  to  the 
brisket  Geofifrey  De  Burgh ;  and  Ealfried's  great  grandfather, 
the  gigantic  Ullafrid,  had  required  no  other  arms  than  those 
which  nature  gave  him  to  hurl  from  the  top  of  his  own  castle 
a  cousin  of  the  base  invading  Norman.  To  her  all  modern 
English  names  were  equally  insignificant :  Hengist,  Horsa, 
and  such  like,  had  for  her  ears  the  only  true  savour  of  nobil- 
ity.    She  was  not  contented  unless  she  could  go  beyond  the 

200 


THE   THORNES    OF    ULLATHORNE. 

Saxons ;  and  would  certainly  have  christened  her  children,  had 
she  had  children,  by  the  names  of  the  ancient  Britons.  In 
some  respects  she  was  not  unlike  Scott's  Ulrica,  and  had  she 
been  given  to  cursing,  she  would  certainly  have  done  so  in  the 
names  of  Mista,  Skogula,  and  Zernebock.  Not  having  sub- 
mitted to  the  embraces  of  any  polluting  Norman,  as  poor 
Ulrica  had  done,  and  having  assisted  no  parricide,  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  was  not  curdled  in  her  bosom.  She  never 
cursed,  therefore,  but  blessed  rather.  This,  however,  she  did 
in  a  strange  uncouth  Saxon  manner  that  would  have  been 
unintelligible  to  any  peasants  but  her  own. 

As  a  politician,  Miss  Thorne  had  been  so  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted with  public  life  by  base  deeds  long  antecedent  to  the 
Corn  Law  question,  that  that  had  but  little  moved  her.  In 
her  estimation  her  brother  had  been  a  fast  young  man,  hurried 
away  by  a  too  ardent  temperament  into  democratic  tenden- 
cies. Now  happily  he  was  brought  to  sounder  views  by  see- 
ing the  iniquity  of  the  world.  She  had  not  yet  reconciled 
herself  to  the  Reform  Bill,  and  still  groaned  in  spirit  over  the 
defalcations  of  the  Duke  as  touching  the  Catholic  Emancipa- 
tion. If  asked  whom  she  thought  the  Queen  should  take  as 
her  counsellor,  she  would  probably  have  named  Lord  Eldon ; 
and  when  reminded  that  that  venerable  man  was  no  longer 
present  in  the  flesh  to  assist  us,  she  would  probably  have  an- 
swered with  a  sigh  that  none  now  could  help  us  but  the  dead. 

In  religion.  Miss  Thorne  was  a  pure  Druidess.  We  would 
not  have  it  understood  by  that,  that  she  did  actually  in  these 
latter  days  assist  at  any  human  sacrifices,  or  that  she  was  in 
fact  hostile  to  the  Church  of  Christ.  She  had  adopted  the 
Christian  religion  as  a  milder  form  of  the  worship  of  her 
ancestors,  and  always  appealed  to  her  doing  so  as  evidence 
that  she  had  no  prejudices  against  reform,  when  it  could  be 
shown  that  reform  was  salutary.  This  reform  was  the  most 
modern  of  any  to  which  she  had  as  yet  acceded,  it  being  pre- 
sumed that  British  ladies  had  given  up  their  paint  and  taken 
to  some  sort  of  petticoats  before  the  days  of  St.  Augustine. 
That  further  feminine  step  in  advance  which  combines  paint 
and  petticoats  together,  had  not  found  a  votary  in  Miss 
Thorne. 

But  she  was  a  Druidess  in  this,  that  she  regretted  she  knew 

20 1 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

not  what  in  the  usages  and  practices  of  her  Church.  She 
sometimes  talked  and  constantly  thought  of  good  things  gone 
by,  though  she  had  but  the  faintest  idea  of  what  those  good 
things  had  been.  She  imagined  that  a  purity  had  existed 
which  was  now  gone;  that  a  piety  had  adorned  our  pastors 
and  a  simple  docility  our  people,  for  which  it  may  be  feared 
history  gave  her  but  little  true  warrant.  She  was  accustom.ed 
to  speak  of  Cranmer  as  though  he  had  been  the  firmest  and 
most  simple-minded  of  martyrs,  and  of  Elizabeth  as  though 
the  pure  Protestant  faith  of  her  people  had  been  the  one  anx- 
iety of  her  life.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to  undeceive  her, 
had  it  been  possible ;  but  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
make  her  believe  that  the  one  was  a  time-serving  priest,  will- 
ing to  go  any  length  to  keep  his  place,  and  that  the  other  was 
in  heart  a  papist,  with  this  sole  proviso,  that  she  should  be 
her  own  pope. 

And  so  Miss  Thorne  went  on  sighing  and  regretting,  look- 
ing back  to  the  divine  right  of  kings  as  the  ruling  axiom  of  a 
golden  age,  and  cherishing,  low  down  in  the  bottom  of  her 
heart  of  hearts,  a  dear  unmentioned  wish  for  the  restoration 
of  some  exiled  Stuart.  Who  would  deny  her  the  luxury  of 
her  sighs,  or  the  sweetness  of  her  soft  regrets! 

In  her  person  and  her  dress  she  was  perfect,  and  well  she 
knew  her  own  perfection.  She  was  a  small  elegantly  made 
old  woman,  with  a  face  from  which  the  glow  of  her  youth 
had  not  departed  without  leaving  some  streaks  of  a  roseate 
hue.  She  was  proud  of  her  colour,  proud  of  her  grey  hair 
which  she  wore  in  short  crisp  curls  peering  out  all  around 
lier  face  from  the  dainty  white  lace  cap.  To  think  of  all  the 
money  that  she  spent  in  lace  used  to  break  the  heart  of  poor 
Mrs.  Quiverful  with  her  seven  daughters.  She  was  proud 
of  her  teeth,  which  were  still  white  and  numerous,  proud  of 
her  bright  cheery  eye,  proud  of  her  short  jaunty  step,  and 
very  proud  of  the  neat,  precise,  small  feet  with  which  those 
steps  were  taken.  She  was  proud  also,  ay,  very  proud,  of  the 
rich  brocaded  silk  in  which  it  was  her  custom  to  ruffle  through 
her  drawing-room. 

We  know  what  was  the  custom  of  the  lady  of  Branksome — 

"Nine-and-twenty   knights    of    fame 
Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall." 
202 


THE    THORNES    OF    ULLATHORNE. 

The  lady  of  Ullathorne  was  not  so  martial  in  her  habits,  but 
hardly  less  costly.  She  might  have  boasted  that  nine-and- 
twenty  silken  skirts  might  have  been  produced  in  her  cham- 
ber, each  fit  to  stand  alone.  The  nine-and-twenty  shields  of 
the  Scottish  heroes  were  less  independent,  and  hardly  more 
potent  to  withstand  any  attack  that  might  be  made  on  them. 
Miss  Thorne  when  fully  dressed  might  be  said  to  have  been 
armed  cap-a-pie,  and  she  was  always  fully  dressed,  as  far  as 
was  ever  known  to  mortal  man. 

For  all  this  rich  attire  Miss  Thorne  was  not  indebted  to 
the  generosity  of  her  brother.  She  had  a  very  comfortable 
independence  of  her  own,  which  she  divided  among  juvenile 
relatives,  the  milliners,  and  the  poor,  giving  much  the  largest 
share  to  the  latter.  It  may  be  imagined,  therefore,  that  with 
all  her  little  follies  she  was  not  unpopular.  All  her  follies 
have,  we  believe,  been  told.  Her  virtues  were  too  numerous 
to  describe,  and  not  sufficiently  interesting  to  deserve  descrip- 
tion. 

While  we  are  on  the  subject  of  the  Thornes,  one  word 
must  be  said  of  the  house  they  lived  in.  It  was  not  a  large 
house,  nor  a  fine  house,  nor  perhaps  to  modern  ideas  a  very 
commodious  house ;  but  by  those  who  love  the  peculiar  colour 
and  peculiar  ornaments  of  genuine  Tudor  architecture  it  was 
considered  a  perfect  gem.  We  beg  to  own  ourselves  among 
the  number,  and  therefore  take  this  opportunity  to  express 
our  surprise  that  so  little  is  known  by  English  men  and 
women  of  the  beauties  of  English  architecture.  The  ruins 
of  the  Colosseum,  the  Campanile  at  Florence.  St.  Mark's, 
Cologne,  the  Bourse  and  Notre  Dame,  are  with  our  tourists 
as  familiar  as  household  words ;  but  they  know  nothing  of  the 
glories  of  Wiltshire,  Dorsetshire,  and  Somersetshire.  Nay, 
we  much  question  whether  many  noted  travellers,  men  who 
have  pitched  their  tents  perhaps  under  Mount  Sinai,  are  not 
still  ignorant  that  there  are  glories  in  Wiltshire,  Dorsetshire, 
and  Somersetshire.     We  beg  that  they  will  go  and  see. 

Mr.  Thome's  house  was  called  Ullathorne  Court,  and  was 
properly  so  called ;  for  the  house  itself  formed  two  sides  of  a 
quadrangle,  which  was  completed  on  the  other  two  sides  by  a 
wall  about  twenty  feet  high.  This  wall  was  built  of  cut 
stone,  rudely  cut  indeed,  and  now  much  worn,  but  of  a  beau- 

203 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

tiful  rich  tawny  yellow  colour,  the  effect  of  that  stonecrop  of 
minute  growth,  which  it  had  taken  three  centuries  to  produce. 
The  top  of  this  wall  was  ornamented  by  huge  round  stone 
balls  of  the  same  colour  as  the  wall  itself.  Entrance  into  the 
court  was  had  through  a  pair  of  iron  gates,  so  massive  that 
no  one  could  comfortably  open  or  close  them,  consequently 
they  were  rarely  disturbed.  From  the  gateway  two  paths  led 
obliquely  across  the  court ;  that  to  the  left  reaching  the  hall- 
door,  which  was  in  the  corner  made  by  the  angle  of  the  house, 
and  that  to  the  right  leading  to  the  back  entrance,  which  was 
at  the  further  end  of  the  longer  portion  of  the  building. 

With  those  who  are  now  adepts  in  contriving  house  accom- 
modation, it  will  militate  much  against  Ullathorne  Court,  that 
no  carriage  could  be  brought  to  the  hall-door.  If  you  enter 
Ullathorne  at  all,  you  must  do  so,  fair  reader,  on  foot,  or  at 
least  in  a  bath-chair.  No  vehicle  drawn  by  horses  ever  comes 
within  that  iron  gate.  But  this  is  nothing  to  the  next  horror 
that  will  encounter  you.  On  entering  the  front  door,  which 
you  do  by  no  very  grand  portal,  yovi  find  yourself  immediately 
in  the  dining-room.  What, — no  hall  ?  exclaims  my  luxurious 
friend,  accustomed  to  all  the  comfortable  appurtenances  of 
modern  life.  Yes,  kind  sir;  a  noble  hall,  if  you  will  but  ob- 
serve it ;  a  true  old  English  hall  of  excellent  dimensions  for  a 
country  gentleman's  family ;  but,  if  you  please,  no  dining- 
parlour. 

Both  Mr.  and  Miss  Thorne  were  proud  of  this  peculiarity 
of  their  dwelling,  though  the  brother  was  once  all  but  tempted 
by  his  friends  to  alter  it.  They  delighted  in  the  knowledge 
that  they,  like  Cedric,  positively  dined  in  their  true  hall,  even 
though  they  so  dined  tete-a-tete.  But  though  they  had  never 
owned,  they  had  felt  and  endeavoured  to  remedy  the  discom- 
fort of  such  an  arrangement.  A  huge  screen  partitioned  off 
the  front  door  and  a  portion  of  the  hall,  and  from  the  angle 
so  screened  off  a  second  door  led  into  a  passage,  which  ran 
along  the  larger  side  of  the  house  next  to  the  courtyard. 
Either  my  reader  or  I  must  be  a  bad  hand  at  topography,  if  it 
be  not  clear  that  the  great  hall  forms  the  ground  floor  of  the 
smaller  portion  of  the  mansion,  that  which  was  to  your  left 
as  you  entered  the  iron  gate,  and  that  it  occupies  the  whole  of 
this  wing  of  the  building.     It  must  be  equally  clear  that  it 

204 


THE   THORNES    OE   ULLATHORNE. 

looks  out  on  a  trim  mown  lawn,  through  three  quadrangular 
windows  with  stone  mullions,  each  window  divided  into  a 
larger  portion  at  the  bottom,  and  a  smaller  portion  at  the  top, 
and  each  portion  again  divided  into  five  by  perpendicular 
stone  supporters.  There  may  be  windows  which  give  a  better 
light  than  such  as  these,  and  it  may  be,  as  my  utilitarian 
friend  observes,  that  the  giving  of  light  is  the  desired  object 
of  a  window.  I  will  not  argue  the  point  with  him.  Indeed 
I  cannot.  But  I  shall  not  the  less  die  in  the  assured  convic- 
tion that  no  sort  or  description  of  window  is  capable  of  im- 
parting half  so  much  happiness  to  mankind  as  that  which  had 
been  adopted  at  Ullathorne  Court.  What — not  an  oriel?  says 
Miss  Diana  de  Midellage.  No,  Miss  Diana ;  not  even  an 
oriel.  Beautiful  as  is  an  oriel  window,  it  has  not  about  it  so 
perfect  a  feeling  of  quiet  English  homely  comfort.  Let  oriel 
windows  grace  a  college,  or  the  half  public  mansion  of  a 
potent  peer ;  but  for  the  sitting  room  of  quiet  country  ladies, 
of  ordinary  homely  folk,  nothing  can  equal  the  square  mul- 
Honed  windows  of  the  Tudor  architects. 

The  hall  was  hung  round  with  family  female  insipidities  by 
Lely,  and  unprepossessing  male  Thornes  in  red  coats  by 
Kneller ;  each  Thorne  having  been  let  into  a  panel  in  the 
wainscoting,  in  the  proper  manner.  At  the  further  end  of 
the  room  was  a  huge  fire-place,  which  afforded  much  ground 
of  difference  between  the  brother  and  sister.  An  antiquated 
grate  that  would  hold  about  a  hundred  weight  of  coal,  had 
been  stuck  on  to  the  hearth,  by  Mr.  Thome's  father.  This 
hearth  had  of  course  been  intended  for  the  consumption  of 
wood  fagots,  and  the  iron  dogs  for  the  purpose  were  still 
standing,  though  half  buried  in  the  masonry  of  the  grate. 
Miss  Thorne  was  very  anxious  to  revert  to  the  dogs.  The 
dear  good  old  creature  was  always  glad  to  revert  to  anything, 
and  had  she  been  systematically  indulged,  would  doubtless 
in  time  have  reflected  that  fingers  were  made  before  forks, 
and  have  reverted  accordingly.  But  in  the  affairs  of  the  fire- 
place, Mr.  Thorne  would  not  revert.  Country  gentlemen 
around  him,  all  had  comfortable  grates  in  their  dining-rooms. 
He  was  not  exactly  the  man  to  have  suggested  a  modern 
usage;  but  he  was  not  so  far  prejudiced  as  to  banish  those 
which  his  father  had  prepared  for  his  use.     Mr.  Thorne  had, 

205 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

indeed,  once  suggested  that  with  very  Httle  contrivance  the 
front  door  might  have  been  so  ahered,  as  to  open  at  least 
into  the  passage;  but  on  hearing  this,  his  sister  Monica,  such 
was  Miss  Thome's  name,  had  been  taken  ill,  and  had  re- 
mained so  for  a  week.  Before  she  came  down  stairs  she 
received  a  pledge  from  her  brother  that  the  entrance  should 
never  be  changed  in  her  lifetime. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  opposite  to  the  fire-place  a  door  led 
into  the  drawing-room,  which  was  of  equal  size,  and  lighted 
with  precisely  similar  windows.  But  yet  the  aspect  of  the 
room  was  very  different.  It  was  papered,  and  the  ceiling, 
which  in  the  hall  showed  the  old  rafters,  was  whitened  and 
finished  with  a  modern  cornice.  Miss  Thome's  drawing- 
room,  or,  as  she  always  called  it,  withdrawing-room,  was 
a  beautiful  apartment.  The  windows  opened  on  to  the  full 
extent  of  the  lovely  trim  garden ;  immediately  before  the  win- 
dows were  plots  of  flowers  in  stiff,  stately,  stubborn  little 
beds,  each  bed  surrounded  by  a  stone  coping  of  its  own ; 
beyond,  there  was  a  low  parapet  wall,  on  which  stood  urns 
and  images,  fawns,  nymphs,  satyrs,  and  a  whole  tribe  of 
Pan's  followers;  and  then  again,  beyond  that,  a  beautiful 
lawn  sloped  away  to  a  sunk  fence  which  divided  the  garden 
from  the  park.  Mr.  Thome's  study  was  at  the  end  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  beyond  that  were  the  kitchen  and  the 
offices.  Doors  opened  into  both  Miss  Thome's  withdrawing- 
room  and  Mr.  Thome's  sanctum  from  the  passage  above 
alluded  to;  which,  as  it  came  to  the  latter  room,  widened 
itself  so  as  to  make  space  for  the  huge  black  oak  stairs  which 
led  to  the  upper  regions. 

Such  was  the  interior  of  Ullathorne  Court.  But  having 
thus  described  it,  perhaps  somewhat  too  tediously,  we  beg 
to  say  that  it  is  not  the  interior  to  which  we  wish  to  call  the 
English  tourist's  attention,  though  we  advise  him  to  lose  no 
legitimate  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  it  in  a 
friendly  manner.  It  is  the  outside  of  Ullathorne  that  is  so 
lovely.  Let  the  tourist  get  admission  at  least  into  the  garden, 
and  fling  himself  on  that  soft  sward  just  opposite  to  the  ex- 
terior angle  of  the  house.  He  will  there  get  the  double  front- 
age, and  enjoy  that  which  is  so  lovely — the  expanse  of  archi- 
tectural beauty  without  the  formal  dulness  of  one  long  line. 

206 


THE    THORNES    OF   ULLATHORNE. 

It  is  the  colour  of  Ullathorne  that  is  so  remarkable.  It  is 
all  of  that  delicious  tawny  hue  which  no  stone  can  give, 
unless  it  has  on  it  the  vegetable  richness  of  centuries.  Strike 
the  wall  with  your  hand,  and  you  will  think  that  the  stone 
has  on  it  no  covering,  but  rub  it  carefully,  and  you  will 
find  that  the  colour  comes  off  upon  your  finger.  No  colour- 
ist  that  ever  yet  worked  from  a  palette  has  been  able  to 
come  up  to  this  rich  colouring  of  years  crowding  themselves 
on  years. 

Ullathorne  is  a  high  building  for  a  country  house,  for 
it  possesses  three  stories ;  and  in  each  story,  the  windows 
are  of  the  same  sort  as  that  described,  though  varying  in 
size,  and  varying  also  in  their  lines  athwart  the  house.  Those 
of  the  ground  floor  are  all  uniform  in  size  and  position.  But 
those  above  are  irregular  both  in  size  and  place,  and  this 
irregularity  gives  a  bizarre  and  not  unpicturesque  appear- 
ance to  the  building.  Along  the  top,  on  every  side,  runs 
a  low  parapet,  which  nearly  hides  the  roof,  and  at  the  cor- 
ners are  more  figures  of  fawns  and  satyrs. 

Such  is  Ullathorne  House.  But  we  must  say  one  word  of 
the  approach  to  it,  which  shall  include  all  the  description 
which  we  mean  to  give  of  the  church  also.  The  pictur- 
esque old  church  of  St.  Ewold's  stands  immediately  oppo- 
site to  the  iron  gates  which  open  into  the  court,  and  is  all 
but  surrounded  by  the  branches  of  the  lime  trees,  which 
form  the-  avenue  leading  up  to  the  house  from  both  sides. 
This  avenue  is  magnificent,  but  it  would  lose  much  of  its 
value  in  the  eyes  of  many  proprietors,  by  the  fact  that  the 
road  through  it  is  not  private  property.  It  is  a  public  lane 
between  hedge  rows,  with  a  broad  grass  margin  on  each 
side  of  the  road,  from  which  the  lime  trees  spring.  Ulla- 
thorne Court,  therefore,  does  not  stand  absolutely  surround- 
ed by  its  own  grounds,  though  Mr.  Thorne  is  owner  of  all 
the  adjacent  land.  This,  however,  is  the  source  of  very 
little  annoyance  to  him.  Men,  when  they  are  acquiring 
property,  think  much  of  such  things,  but  they  who  live  where 
their  ancestors  have  lived  for  years,  do  not  feel  the  misfor- 
tune. It  never  occurred  to  Mr.  and  Miss  Thorne  that  they 
were  not  sufficiently  private,  because  the  world  at  large 
might,  if  it  so  wished,   walk  or  drive  by  their  iron  gates. 

207 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

That  part  of  the  world  which  availed  itself  of  the  privilege 
was  however  very  small. 

Such  a  year  or  two  since  were  the  Thornes  of  Ullathorne. 
Such,  we  believe,  are  the  inhabitants  of  many  an  English 
country  home.  May  it  be  long  before  their  number  di- 
minishes. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

MR.  ARABIN   READS   HIMSELF   IN   AT   ST.   EWOLd's. 

ON  the  Sunday  morning  the  archdeacon  with  his  sister- 
in-law  and  Mr,  Arabin  drove  to  Ullathorne,  as  had 
been  arranged.  On  their  way  thither  the  new  vicar  declared 
himself  to  be  considerably  disturbed  in  his  mind  at  the  idea 
of  thus  facing  his  parishioners  for  the  first  time.  He  had, 
he  said,  been  always  subject  to  mauvaise  honte  and  an  an- 
noying degree  of  bashfulness,  which  often  unfitted  him  for 
any  work  of  a  novel  description ;  and  now  he  felt  this  so 
strongly  that  he  feared  he  should  acquit  himself  badly  in 
St.  Ewold's  reading-desk.  He  knew,  he  said,  that  those 
sharp  little  eyes  of  Miss  Thorne  would  be  on  him,  and  that 
they  would  not  approve.  All  this  the  archdeacon  greatly 
ridiculed.  He  himself  knew  not,  and  had  never  known, 
what  it  was  to  be  shy.  He  could  not  conceive  that  Miss 
Thorne,  surrounded  as  she  would  be  by  the  peasants  of 
Ullathorne  and  a  few  of  the  poorer  inhabitants  of  the  sub- 
urbs of  Barchester,  could  in  any  way  affect  the  composure 
of  a  man  well  accustomed  to  address  the  learned  congrega- 
tion of  St.  Mary's  at  Oxford,  and  he  laughed  accordingly 
at  the  idea  of  Mr.  Arabin's  modesty. 

Thereupon  Mr.  Arabin  commenced  to  subtilise.  The 
change,  he  said,  from  St,  Mary's  to  St.  Ewold's  was  quite 
as  powerful  on  the  spirits  as  would  be  that  from  St.  Ewold's 
to  St.  Marv's.  •  Would  not  a  peer  who.  by  chance  of  fortune, 
might  suddenlv  be  driven  to  herd  amon^  navvies  be  as  afraid 
of  the  jeers  of  his  companions,  as  would  any  navvy  suddenly 
exalted  to  a  seat  among  the  peers?  Whereupon  the  arch- 
deacon declared  with  a  loud  laugh  that  he  would  tell  Miss 

208  ' 


MR.  ARABIN  AT   ST.   EWOLD'S. 

Thorne  that  her  new  minister  had  Hkened  her  to  a  navvy. 
Eleanor,  however,  pronounced  such  a  conchision  to  be  un- 
fair ;  a  comparison  might  be  very  just  in  its  proportions 
which  did  not  at  all  assimilate  the  things  compared.  But 
Mr.  Arabin  went  on  subtilising,  regarding  neither  the  arch- 
deacon's raillery  nor  Eleanor's  defence.  A  young  lady,  he 
said,  would  execute  with  most  perfect  self-possession  a  diffi- 
cult piece  of  music  in  a  room  crowded  with  strangers,  who 
would  not  be  able  to  express  herself  in  intelligible  language, 
even  on  any  ordinary  subject  and  among  her  most  intimate 
friends,  if  she  were  required  to  do  so  standing  on  a  box 
somewhat  elevated  among  them.  It  was  all  an  affair  of  edu- 
cation, and  he  at  forty  found  it  difficult  to  educate  himself 
anew. 

Eleanor  dissented  on  the  matter  of  the  box ;  and  averred 
she  could  speak  very  well  about  dresses,  or  babies,  or  legs 
of  mutton  from  any  box,  provided  it  were  big  enough  for 
her  to  stand  upon  without  fear,  even  though  all  her  friends 
were  listening  to  her.  The  archdeacon  was  sure  she  would 
not  be  able  to  say  a  word,  but  this  proved  nothing  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Arabin.  Mr.  Arabin  said  that  he  would  try  the 
question  out  with  Mrs.  Bold,  and  get  her  on  a  box  some  day 
when  the  rectory  might  be  full  of  visitors.  To  this  Eleanor 
assented,  making  conditions  that  the  visitors  should  be  of 
their  own  set,  and  the  archdeacon  cogitated  in  his  mind, 
whether  by  such  a  condition  it  was  intended  that  Mr.  Slope 
should  be  included,  resolving  also  that,  if  so,  the  trial  would 
certainly  never  take  place  in  the  rectory  drawing-room  at 
Plumstead. 

And  so  arguing,  they  drove  up  to  the  iron  gates  of  Ulla- 
thorne  Court. 

Mr.  and  Miss  Thorne  were  standing  ready  dressed  for 
church  in  the  hall,  and  greeted  their  clerical  visitors  with 
cordiality.  The  archdeacon  was  an  old  favourite.  He  was 
a  clergyman  of  the  old  school,  and  this  recommended  him 
to  the  lady.  He  had  always  been  an  opponent  of  free  trade 
as  long  as  free  trade  was  an  open  question ;  and  now  that 
it  was  no  longer  so,  he,  being  a  clergyman,  had  not  been 
obliged,  like  most  of  his  lay  Tory  companions,  to  read  his 
recantation.  He  could  therefore  be  regarded  as  a  supporter 
^*  209 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

of  the  immaculate  fifty-three,  and  was  on  this  account  a 
favourite  with  Mr.  Thorne.  The  little  bell  was  tinkling,  and 
the  rural  population  of  the  parish  were  standing  about  the 
lane,  leaning  on  the  church  stile,  and  against  the  walls  of 
the  old  court,  anxious  to  get  a  look  at  their  new  minister 
as  he  passed  from  the  house  to  the  rectory.  The  archdea- 
con's servant  had  already  preceded  them  thither  with  the 
vestments. 

They  all  went  forth  together;  and  when  the  ladies  passed 
into  the  church  the  three  gentlemen  tarried  a  moment  in 
the  lane,  that  Mr.  Thorne  might  name  to  the  vicar  with  some 
kind  of  one-sided  introduction,  the  most  leading  among  his 
parishioners. 

"Here  are  our  churchwardens,  Mr.  Arabin;  Farmer 
Greenacre  and  Mr.  Stiles.  Mr.  Stiles  has  the  mill  as  you 
go  into  Barchester;  and  very  good  churchwardens  they  are." 

"Not  very  severe,  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Arabin :  the  two 
ecclesiastical  officers  touched  their  hats,  and  each  made  a 
leg  in  the  approved  rural  fashion,  assuring  the  vicar  that 
they  were  very  glad  to  have  the  honour  of  seeing  him,  and 
adding  that  the  weather  was  very  good  for  the  harvest.  Mr. 
Stiles  being  a  man  somewhat  versed  in  town  life,  had  an 
impression  of  his  own  dignity,  and  did  not  quite  like  leaving 
his  pastor  under  the  erroneous  idea  that  he  being  a  church- 
warden kept  the  children  in  order  during  church  time. 
'Twas  thus  he  understood  Mr.  Arabin's  allusion  to  his 
severity,  and  hastened  to  put  matters  right  by  observing  that 
"Sexton  Clodheve  looked  to  the  younguns,  and  perhaps 
sometimes  there  may  be  a  thought  too  much  stick  going  on 
during  sermon."  Mr.  Arabin's  bright  eye  twinkled  as  he 
caught  that  of  the  archdeacon's ;  and  he  smiled  to  himself 
as  he  observed  how  ignorant  his  officers  were  of  the  nature 
of  their  authority,  and  of  the  surveillance  which  it  was  their 
duty  to  keep  even  over  himself. 

Mr.  Arabin  read  the  lessons  and  preached.  It  was  enough 
to  put  a  man  a  little  out,  let  him  have  been  ever  so  used  to 
pulpit  reading,  to  see  the  knowing  way  in  which  the  farmers 
cocked  their  ears,  and  set  about  a  mental  criticism  as  to 
whether  their  new  minister  did  or  did  not  fall  short  of  the 
excellence  of  him  who  had  lately  departed  from  them.     A 

2IO 


MR.    ARABIN    AT    ST.    EWOLD'S. 

mental  and  silent  criticism  it  was  for  the  existing  moment, 
but  soon  to  be  made  public  among  the  elders  of  St.  Ewold's 
over  the  green  graves  of  their  children  and  forefathers.  The 
excellence,  however,  of  poor  old  Mr.  Goodenough  had  not 
been  wonderful,  and  there  were  few  there  who  did  not  deem 
that  Mr.  Arabin  did  his  work  sufficiently  well,  in  spite  of 
the  slightly  nervous  affection  which  at  first  impeded  him, 
and  which  nearly  drove  the  archdeacon  beside  himself. 

But  the  sermon  was  the  thing  to  try  the  man.  It  often 
surprises  us  that  very  young  men  can  muster  courage  to 
preach  for  the  first  time  to  a  strange  congregation.  Men 
who  are  as  yet  but  little  more  than  boys,  who  have  but  just 
left,  what  indeed  we  may  not  call  a  school,  but  a  seminary 
intended  for  their  tuition  as  scholars,  whose  thoughts  have 
been  mostly  of  boating,  cricketing,  and  wine  parties,  ascend 
a  rostrum  high  above  the  heads  of  the  submissive  crowd, 
not  that  they  may  read  God's  word  to  those  below,  but  that 
they  may  preach  their  own  word  for  the  edification  of  their 
hearers.  It  seems  strange  to  us  that  they  are  not  stricken 
dumb  by  the  new  and  awful  solemnity  of  their  position. 
How  am  I,  just  turned  twenty-three,  who  have  never  yet 
passed  ten  thoughtful  days  since  the  power  of  thought  first 
came  to  me,  how  am  I  to  instruct  these  greybeards,  who 
with  the  weary  thinking  of  so  many  years  have  approached 
so  near  the  grave?  Can  I  teach  them  their  duty?  Can  I 
explain  to  them  that  which  I  so  imperfectly  understand,  that 
which  years  of  study  may  have  made  so  plain  to  them  ?  Has 
my  newly  acquired  privilege,  as  one  of  God's  ministers,  im- 
parted to  me  as  yet  any  fitness  for  the  wonderful  work 
of  a  preacher? 

It  must  be  supposed  that  such  ideas  do  occur  to  young 
clerg3'men,  and  yet  they  overcome,  apparently  with  ease, 
this  difficulty  which  to  us  appears  to  be  all  but  insurmount- 
able. We  have  never  been  subjected  in  the  way  of  ordina- 
tion to  the  power  of  a  bishop's  hands.  It  may  be  that  there 
is  in  them  something  that  sustains  the  spirit  and  banishes 
the  natural  modesty  of  youth.  But  for  ourselves  we  must 
own  that  the  deep  affection  which  Dominie  Sampson  felt  for 
his  young  pupils  has  not  more  endeared  him  to  us  than  the 
bashful  spirit  which  sent  him  mute  and  inglorious  from  the 

211 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

pulpit  when  he  rose  there  with  the  futile  attempt  to  preach 
God's  gospel. 

There  is  a  rule  in  our  church  which  forbids  the  younger 
order  of  our  clergymen  to  perform  a  certain  portion  of  the 
service.  The  absolution  must  be  read  by  a  minister  in 
priest's  orders.  If  there  be  no  such  minister  present,  the 
congregation  can  have  the  benefit  of  no  absolution  but  that 
which  each  may  succeed  in  administering  to  himself.  The 
rule  may  be  a  good  one,  though  the  necessity  for  it  hardly 
comes  home  to  the  general  understanding.  But  this  for- 
bearance on  the  part  of  youth  would  be  much  more  appre- 
ciated if  it  were  extended  likewise  to  sermons.  The  only 
danger  would  be  that  congregations  would  be  too  anxious 
to  prevent  their  young  clergymen  from  advancing  them- 
selves in  the  ranks  of  the  ministry.  Clergymen  who  could 
not  preach  would  be  such  blessings  that  they  would  be  bribed 
to  adhere  to  their  incompetence. 

Mr.  Arabin,  however,  had  not  the  modesty  of  youth  to 
impede  him,  and  he  succeeded  with  his  sermon  even  better 
than  with  the  lessons.  He  took  for  his  text  two  verses  out  of 
the  second  epistle  of  St.  John.  "Whosoever  transgresseth, 
and  abideth  not  in  the  doctrine  of  Christ,  hath  not  God.  He 
that  abideth  in  the  doctrine  of  Christ,  he  hath  both  the 
Father  and  Son.  If  there  come  any  unto  you  and  bring 
not  this  doctrine,  receive  him  not  into  your  house,  neither 
bid  him  God  speed."  He  told  them  that  the  house  of  theirs 
to  which  he  alluded  was  this  their  church  in  which  he  now 
addressed  them  for  the  first  time ;  that  their  most  welcome 
and  proper  manner  of  bidding  him  God  speed  would  be  their 
patient  obedience  to  his  teaching  of  the  gospel ;  but  that  he 
could  put  forward  no  claim  to  such  conduct  on  their  part 
unless  he  taught  them  the  great  Christian  doctrine  of  works 
and  faith  combined.  On  this  he  enlarged,  but  not  very 
amply,  and  after  twenty  minutes  succeeded  in  sending  his 
new  friends  home  to  their  baked  mutton  and  pudding  well 
pleased  with  their  new  minister. 

Then  came  the  lunch  at  Ullathorne.  As  soon  as  they  were 
in  the  hall  Miss  Thorne  took  Mr.  Arabin's  hand,  and  as- 
sured him  that  she  received  him  into  her  house,  into  the 
temple,  she  said,  in  which  she  worshipped,  and  bade  him 

212 


MR.    ARABIN   AT    ST.    EWOLD'S. 

God  speed  with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Arabin  was  touched,  and 
squeezed  the  spinster's  hand  without  uttering  a  word  in 
reply.  Then  Mr.  Thorne  expressed  a  hope  that  Mr.  Arabin 
found  the  church  easy  to  fill,  and  Mr.  Arabin  having  replied 
that  he  had  no  doubt  he  should  do  so  as  soon  as  he  had 
learnt  to  pitch  his  voice  to  the  building,  they  all  sat  down 
to  the  good  things  before  them. 

Miss  Thorne  took  special  care  of  Mrs.  Bold.  Eleanor 
still  wore  her  widow's  weeds,  and  therefore  had  about  her 
that  air  of  grave  and  sad  maternity  which  is  the  lot  of  recent 
widows.  This  opened  the  soft  heart  of  Miss  Thorne,  and 
made  her  look  on  her  younger  guest  as  though  too  much 
could  not  be  done  for  her.  She  heaped  chicken  and  ham 
upon  her  plate,  and  poured  out  for  her  a  full  bumper  of 
port  wine.  When  Eleanor,  who  was  not  sorry  to  get  it,  had 
drunk  a  little  of  it,  Miss  Thorne  at  once  essayed  to  fill  it 
again.  To  this  Eleanor  objected,  but  in  vain.  Miss  Thorne 
winked  and  nodded  and  whispered,  saying  that  it  was  the 
proper  thing  and  must  be  done,  and  that  she  knew  all  about 
it ;  and  so  she  desired  Mrs.  Bold  to  drink  it  up,  and  not  mind 
any  body. 

"It  is  your  duty,  you  know,  to  support  yourself,"  she  said 
into  the  ear  of  the  young  mother ;  "there's  more  than  your- 
self depending  on  it ;"  and  thus  she  coshered  up  Eleanor 
with  cold  fowl  and  port  wine.  How  it  is  that  poor  men's 
wives,  who  have  no  cold  fowl  and  port  wine  on  which  to 
be  coshered  up,  nurse  their  children  without  difficulty,  where- 
as the  wives  of  rich  men,  who  eat  and  drink  everything  that 
is  good,  cannot  do  so,  we  will  for  the  present  leave  to  the 
doctors  and  the  mothers  to  settle  between  them. 

And  then  Miss  Thorne  was  great  about  teeth.  Little 
Johnny  Bold  had  been  troubled  for  the  last  few  days  with 
his  first  incipient  masticator,  and,  with  that  freemasonry 
which  exists  among  ladies.  Miss  Thorne  became  aware  of 
the  fact  before  Eleanor  had  half  finished  her  wing. 
The  old  lady  prescribed  at  once  a  receipt  which  had  been 
much  in  voeue  in  the  young  days  of  her  grandmother,  and 
warned  Eleanor  with  solemn  voice  against  the  fallacies  of 
modern  medicine. 

"Take  his.  coral,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "and  rub  it  well  with 

213 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

carrot-juice;  rub  it  till  the  juice  dries  on  it,  and  then  give 
it  him  to  play  with " 

"But  he  hasn't  got  a  coral,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Not  got  a  coral !"  said  Miss  Thorne,  with  almost  angry 
vehemence.  "Not  got  a  coral — how  can  you  expect  that  he 
should  cut  his  teeth?     Have  you  got  Daffy's  Elixir?" 

Eleanor  explained  that  she  had  not.  It  had  not  been 
ordered  by  Mr.  Rerechild,  the  Barchester  doctor  whom  she 
employed ;  and  then  the  young  mother  mentioned  some 
shockingly  modern  succedaneum,  which  Mr.  Rerechild's 
new  lights  had  taught  him  to  recommend. 

Miss  Thorne  looked  awfully  severe.  "Take  care,  my 
dear,"  said  she,  "that  the  man  knows  what  he's  about;  take 
care  he  doesn't  destroy  your  little  boy.  But" — and  she  soft- 
ened into  sorrow  as  she  said  it,  and  spoke  more  in  pity  than 
in  anger — "but  I  don't  know  who  there  is  in  Barchester  now 
that  you  can  trust.  Poor  dear  old  Doctor  Bumpwell, 
indeed " 

"Why,  Miss  Thorne,  he  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  he  did,  and  an  unfortunate  day  it  was  for 
Barchester.  As  to  those  young  men  that  have  come  up 
since"  (Mr.  Rerechild,  by  the  bye,  was  quite  as  old  as  Miss 
Thorne  herself),  "one  doesn't  know  where  they  came  from 
or  who  they  are,  or  whether  they  know  anything  about  their 
business  or  not." 

"I  think  there  are  very  clever  men  in  Barchester,"  said 
Eleanor.  • 

"Perhaps  there  may  be ;  only  I  don't  know  them ;  and 
it's  admitted  on  all  sides  that  medical  men  arn't  now  what 
they  used  to  be.  They  used  to  be  talented,  observing,  edu- 
cated men.  But  now  any  whipper-snapper  out  of  an  apothe- 
cary's shop  can  call  himself  a  doctor.  I  believe  no  kind  of 
education  is  now  thought  necessary." 

Eleanor  was  herself  the  widow  of  a  medical  man,  and 
felt  a  little  inclined  to  resent  all  these  hard  sayings.  But 
Miss  Thorne  was  so  essentially  good-natured  that  it  was 
impossible  to  resent  anything  she  said.  She  therefore  sipped 
her  wine  and  finished  her  chicken. 

"At  any  rate,  my  dear,  don't  forget  the  carrot-juice,  and 
by  all  means  get  him  a  coral  at  once.     My  grandmother 

214 


MR.    ARABIN    AT    ST.    EWOLD'S. 

Thorne  had  the  best  teeth  in  the  county  and  carried  them 
to  her  grave  with  her  at  eighty.  I  have  heard  her  say  it 
was  all  the  carrot-juice.  She  couldn't  bear  the  Barchester 
doctors.  Even  poor  old  Dr.  Bumpwell  didn't  please  her." 
It  clearly  never  occurred  to  Miss  Thorne  that  some  fifty 
years  ago  Dr.  Bumpwell  was  only  a  rising  man,  and  there- 
fore as  much  in  need  of  character  in  the  eyes  of  the  then 
ladies  of  Ullathorne,  as  the  present  doctors  were  in  her  own. 

The  archdeacon  made  a  very  good  lunch,  and  talked  to  his 
host  about  turnip-drillers  and  new  machines  for  reaping; 
while  the  host,  thinking  it  only  polite  to  attend  to  a  stranger, 
and  fearing  that  perhaps  he  might  not  care  about  turnip 
crops  on  a  Sunday,  mooted  all  manner  of  ecclesiastical  sub- 
jects. 

"I  never  saw  a  heavier  lot  of  wheat,  Thorne,  than  you've 
got  there  in  that  field  beyond  the  copse.  I  suppose  that's 
guano,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Yes,  guano.  I  get  it  from  Bristol  myself.  You'll  find 
you  often  have  a  tolerable  congregation  of  Barchester  peo- 
ple out  here,  Mr.  Arabin.  They  are  very  fond  of  St. 
Ewold's,  particularly  of  an  afternoon,  when  the  weather  is 
not  too  hot  for  the  walk." 

'T  am  under  an  obligation  to  them  for  staying  away  to- 
day, at  any  rate,"  said  the  vicar.  "The  congregation  can 
never  be  too  small  for  a  maiden  sermon." 

"I  got  a  ton  and  a  half  at  Bradley's  in  High  Street,"  said 
the  archdeacon,  "and  it  was  a  complete  take  in.  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  was  five  hundred-weight  of  guano  in  it." 

"That  Bradley  never  has  anything  good,"  said  Miss 
Thorne,  who  had  just  caught  the  name  during  her  whisper- 
ings with  Eleanor.  "And  such  a  nice  shop  as  there  used  to 
be  in  that  very  house  before  he  came.  Wilfred,  don't  you 
remember  what  good  things  old  Ambleoff  used  to  have?" 

"There  have  been  three  men  since  Ambleoflf's  time,"  said 
the  archdeacon,  "and  each  as  bad  as  the  other.  But  who 
gets  it  for  you  at  Bristol.  Thorne?" 

"I  ran  up  myself  this  year  and  bought  it  out  of  the  ship. 
I  am  afraid  as  the  evenings  get  shorter,  Mr.  Arabin,  you'll 
find  the  reading  desk  too  dark.  I  must  send  a  fellow  with 
an  axe  and  make  him  lop  ofif  some  of  those  branches." 

215 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Arabin  declared  that  the  morning  light  at  any  rate 
was  perfect,  and  deprecated  any  interference  with  the  lime 
trees.  And  then  they  took  a  stroll  out  among  the  trim  par- 
terres, and  Mr.  Arabin  explained  to  Mrs.  Bold  the  difference 
between  a  naiad  and  a  dryad,  and  dilated  on  vases  and  the 
shapes  of  urns.  Miss  Thorne  busied  herself  among  her 
pansies ;  and  her  brother,  finding  it  quite  impracticable  to 
give  anything  of  a  peculiarly  Sunday  tone  to  the  conversa- 
tion, abandoned  the  attempt,  and  had  it  out  with  the  arch- 
deacon about  the  Bristol  guano. 

At  three  o'clock  they  again  went  into  church ;  and  now 
Mr,  Arabin  read  the  service  and  the  archdeacon  preached. 
Nearly  the  same  congregation  was  present,  with  some  ad- 
venturous pedestrians  from  the  city,  who  had  not  thought 
the  heat  of  the  mid-day  August  sun  too  great  to  deter  them. 
The  archdeacon  took  his  text  from  the  Epistle  of  Philemon. 
"1  beseech  thee  for  my  son  Onesimus,  whom  I  have  begot- 
ten in  my  bonds."  From  such  a  text  it  may  be  imagined 
the  kind  of  sermon  which  Dr.  Grantly  preached,  and 
on  the  whole  it  was  neither  dull,  nor  bad,  nor  out  of 
place. 

He  told  them  that  it  had  become  his  duty  to  look  about 
for  a  pastor  for  them,  to  supply  the  place  of  one  who  had 
been  long  among  them ;  and  that  in  this  manner  he  regarded 
as  a  son  him  whom  he  had  selected,  as  St.  Paul  had  re- 
garded the  young  disciple  whom  he  sent  forth.  Then  he 
took  a  little  merit  to  himself  for  having  studiously  provided 
the  best  man  he  could  without  reference  to  patronage  or 
favour;  but  he  did  not  say  that  the  best  man  according  to 
his  view  was  he  who  was  best  able  to  subdue  Mr.  Slope, 
and  make  that  gentleman's  situation  in  Barchester  too  hot 
to  be  comfortable.  As  to  the  bonds,  they  had  consisted  in 
the  exceeding  struggle  which  he  had  made  to  get  a  good 
clergyman  for  them.  He  deprecated  any  comparison  be- 
tween himself  and  St.  Paul,  but  said  that  he  was  entitled 
to  beseech  them  for  their  good  will  towards  Mr.  Arabin, 
in  the  same  manner  that  the  apostle  had  besought  Philemon 
and  his  household  with  regard  to  Onesimus. 

The  archdeacon's  sermon,  text,  blessing  and  all.  was  con- 
cluded within  the  half  hour.     Then  they  shook  hands  with 

216 


MR.    SLOPE    AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

their  Ullathorne  friends,  and  returned  to  Plumstead.    'Twas 
thus  that  Mr.  Arabin  read  himself  in  at  St.  Ewold's. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

MR.    SLOPE    MANAGES    MATTERS   VERY    CLEVERLY  AT 
PUDDINGDALE. 

THE  next  two  weeks  passed  pleasantly  enough  at  Plum- 
stead.  The  whole  party  there  assembled  seemed  to 
get  on  well  together.  Eleanor  made  the  house  agreeable, 
and  the  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grantly  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten her  iniquity  as  regarded  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Harding  had 
his  violoncello,  and  played  to  them  while  his  daughters  ac- 
companied him.  Johnny  Bold,  by  the  help  either  of  Mr. 
Rerechild  or  else  by  that  of  his  coral  and  carrot- juice,  got 
through  his  teething  troubles.  There  had  been  gaieties  too 
of  all  sorts.  They  had  dined  at  Ullathorne,  and  the  Thornes 
had  dined  at  the  Rectory.  Eleanor  had  been  duly  put  to 
stand  on  her  box,  and  in  that  position  had  found  herself 
quite  unable  to  express  her  opinion  on  the  merits  of  flounces, 
such  having  been  the  subject  given  to  try  her  elocution.  Mr. 
Arabin  had  of  course  been  much  in  his  own  parish,  looking 
to  the  doings  at  his  vicarage,  calling  on  his  parishioners, 
and  taking  on  himself  the  duties  of  his  new  calling.  But 
still  he  had  been  every  evening  at  Plumstead,  and  Mrs. 
Grantly  was  partly  willing  to  agree  with  her  husband  that 
he  was  a  pleasant  inmate  in  a  house. 

They  had  also  been  at  a  dinner  party  at  Dr.  Stanhope's, 
of  which  Mr.  Arabin  had  made  one.  He  also,  moth-like, 
burnt  his  wings  in  the  flames  of  the  signora's  candle.  Mrs. 
Bold,  too,  had  been  there,  and  had  felt  somewhat  displeased 
with  the  taste,  want  of  taste  she  called  it,  shown  by  Mr. 
Arabin  in  paying  so  much  attention  to  Madame  Neroni.  It 
was  as  infallible  that  Madeline  should  displease  and  irritate 
the  women,  as  that  she  should  charm  and  captivate  the  men. 
The  one  result  followed  naturally  on  the  other.  It  was  quite 
true  that  Mr.  Arabin  had  been  charmed.  He  thought  her  a 
very  clever  and  a  very  handsome  woman ;  he  thought  also 

217 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

that  her  peculiar  affliction  entitled  her  to  the  sympathy  of 
all.  He  had  never,  he  said,  met  so  much  suffering  joined 
to  such  perfect  beauty  and  so  clear  a  mind.  'Twas  thus  he 
spoke  of  the  signora  coming  home  in  the  archdeacon's  car- 
riage; and  Eleanor  by  no  means  liked  to  hear  the  praise.  It 
was,  however,  exceedingly  unjust  of  her  to  be  angry  with 
Mr.  Arabin,  as  she  had  herself  spent  a  very  pleasant  even- 
ing with  Bertie  Stanhope,  who  had  taken  her  down  to 
dinner,  and  had  not  left  her  side  for  one  moment  after  the 
gentlemen  came  out  of  the  dining  room.  It  was  unfair 
that  she  should  amuse  herself  with  Bertie  and  yet  begrudge 
her  new  friend  his  license  of  amusing  himself  with  Bertie's 
sister.  And  yet  she  did  so.  She  was  half  angry  with  him 
in  the  carriage,  and  said  something  about  meretricious  man- 
ners. Mr.  Arabin  did  not  understand  the  ways  of  women 
very  well,  or  else  he  might  have  flattered  himself  that  Elea- 
nor was  in  love  with  him. 

But  Eleanor  was  not  in  love  with  him.  How  many  shades 
there  are  between  love  and  indifference,  and  how  little  the 
graduated  scale  is  understood !  She  had  now  been  nearly 
three  weeks  in  the  same  house  with  Mr.  Arabin,  and  had 
received  much  of  his  attention,  and  listened  daily  to  his  con- 
versation. He  had  usually  devoted  at  least  some  portion  of 
his  evening  to  her  exclusively.  At  Dr.  Stanhope's  he  had 
devoted  himself  exclusively  to  another.  It  does  not  require 
that  a  woman  should  be  in  love  to  be  irritated  at  this ;  it 
does  not  require  that  she  should  even  acknowledge  to  her- 
self that  it  is  unpleasant  to  her.  Eleanor  had  no  such  self- 
knowledge.  She  thought  in  her  own  heart  that  it  was  only 
on  Mr.  Arabin's  account  that  she  regretted  that  he  could 
condescend  to  be  amused  by  the  signora.  "I  thought  he 
had  more  mind."  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  watching 
her  baby's  cradle  on  her  return  from  the  party.  "After  all, 
I  believe  Mr.  Stanhope  is  the  pleasanter  man  of  the  two." 
Alas  for  the  memory  of  poor  John  Bold !  Eleanor  was  not 
in  love  with  Bertie  Stanhope,  nor  was  she  in  love  with  Mr. 
Arabin.  But  her  devotion  to  her  late  husband  was  fast 
fading,  when  she  could  revolve  in  her  mind,  over  the  cradle 
of  his  infant,  the  faults  and  failings  of  other  aspirants  to 
her  favour. 

218 


MR.    SLOPE   AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

Will  any  one  blame  my  heroine  for  this?  Let  him  or  her 
rather  thank  God  for  all  His  goodness, — for  His  mercy  en- 
dureth  forever. 

Eleanor,  in  truth,  was  not  in  love;  neither  was  Mr.  Arabin. 
Neither  indeed  was  Bertie  Stanhope,  though  he  had  already 
found  occasion  to  say  nearly  as  much  as  that  he  was.  The 
widow's  cap  had  prevented  him  from  making  a  positive 
declaration,  when  otherwise  he  would  have  considered  him- 
self entitled  to  do  so  on  a  third  or  fourth  interview.  It  was, 
after  all,  but  a  small  cap  now,  and  had  but  little  of  the  weep- 
ing-willow left  in  its  construction.  It  is  singular  how  these 
emblems  of  grief  fade  away  by  unseen  gradations.  Each 
pretends  to  be  the  counterpart  of  the  forerunner,  and  yet  the 
last  little  bit  of  crimped  white  crape  that  sits  so  jauntily  on 
the  back  of  the  head,  is  as  dissimilar  to  the  first  huge  moun- 
tain of  woe  which  disfigured  the  face  of  the  weeper,  as  the 
state  of  the  Hindoo  is  to  the  jointure  of  the  English 
dowager. 

But  let  it  be  clearly  understood  that  Eleanor  was  in  love 
with  no  one,  and  that  no  one  was  in  love  with  Eleanor. 
Under  these  circumstances  her  anger  against  Mr.  Arabin 
did  not  last  long,  and  before  two  days  were  over  they  were 
both  as  good  friends  as  ever.  She  could  not  but  like  him, 
for  every  hour  spent  in  his  company  was  spent  pleasantly. 
And  yet  she  could  not  quite  like  him,  for  there  was  always 
apparent  in  his  conversation  a  certain  feeling  on  his  part 
that  he  hardly  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  be  in  earnest. 
It  was  almost  as  though  he  were  playing  with  a  child.  She 
knew  well  enough  that  he  was  in  truth  a  sober  thoughtful 
man,  who  in  some  matters  and  on  some  occasions  could  en- 
dure an  agony  of  earnestness.  And  yet  to  her  he  was  always 
gently  playful.  Could  she  have  seen  his  brow  once  clouded 
she  might  have  learnt  to  love  him. 

So  things  went  on  at  Plumstead,  and  on  the  whole  not 
unpleasantly,  till  a  huge  storm  darkened  the  horizon,  and 
came  down  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  rectory  with  all  the 
fury  of  a  waterspout.  It  was  astonishing  how  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  whole  face  of  the  heavens  was  changed.  The  party 
broke  up  from  breakfast  in  perfect  harmony ;  but  fierce  pas- 
sions had  arisen  before  the  evening,  which  did  not  admit 

219 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

of  their  sitting  at  the  same  board  for  dinner.  To  explain 
this,  it  will  be  necessary  to  go  back  a  little. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  bishop  expressed  to  Mr. 
Slope  in  his  dressing-room,  his  determination  that  Mr. 
Quiverful  should  be  confirmed  in  his  appointment  to  the 
hospital,  and  that  his  lordship  requested  Mr.  Slope  to  com- 
municate this  decision  to  the  archdeacon.  It  will  also  be 
remembered  that  the  archdeacon  had  indignantly  declined 
seeing  Mr.  Slope,  and  had  instead,  written  a  strong  letter  to 
the  bishop,  in  which  he  all  but  demanded  the  situation  of 
warden  for  Mr.  Harding.  To  this  letter  the  ar.chdeacon  re- 
ceived an  immediate  formal  reply  from  Mr.  Slope,  in  which 
it  was  stated,  that  the  bishop  had  received  and  would  give 
his  best  consideration  to  the  archdeacon's  letter. 

The  archdeacon  felt  himself  somewhat  checkmated  by 
this  reply.  What  could  he  do  with  a  man  who  would  neither 
see  him,  nor  argue  with  him  by  letter,  and  who  had  un- 
doubtedly the  power  of  appointing  any  clergyman  he 
pleased?  He  had  consulted  with  Mr.  Arabin,  who  had  sug- 
gested the  propriety  of  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  master  of 
Lazarus.  'Tf,"  said  he,  "you  and  Dr.  Gwynne  formally  de- 
clare your  intention  of  waiting  upon  the  bishop,  the  bishop 
will  not  dare  to  refuse  to  see  you ;  and  if  two  such  men  as 
you  are  see  him  together,  you  will  probably  not  leave  him 
without  carrying  your  point." 

The  archdeacon  did  not  quite  like  admitting  the  necessity 
of  his  being  backed  by  the  master  of  Lazarus  before  he 
could  obtain  admission  into  the  episcopal  palace  of  Bar- 
chester ;  but  still  he  felt  that  the  advice  was  good,  and  he 
resolved  to  take  it.  He  wrote  again  to  the  bishop,  expressing 
a  hope  that  nothing  further  would  be  done  in  the  matter  of 
the  hospital,  till  the  consideration  promised  by  his  lordship 
had  been  given,  and  then  sent  off  a  warm  appeal  to  his  friend 
the  master,  imploring  him  to  come  to  Plumstead  and  assist 
in  driving  the  bishop  into  compliance.  The  master  had  re- 
joined, raising  some  difficulty,  but  not  declining;  and  the 
archdeacon  had  again  pressed  his  point,  insisting  on  the  ne- 
cessity for  immediate  action.  Dr.  Gwynne  unfortunately 
had  the  gout,  and  could  therefore  name  no  immediate  day, 
but  still  agreed  to  come,  if  it  should  be  finally  found  neces- 

220 


MR.    SLOPE    AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

sary.  So  the  matter  stood,  as  regarded  the  party  at  Plum- 
stead. 

But  Mr.  Harding  had  another  friend  fighting  his  battle 
for  him,  quite  as  powerful  as  the  master  of  Lazarus,  and 
this  was  Mr.  Slope.  Though  the  bishop  had  so  perti- 
naciously insisted  on  giving  way  to  his  wife  in  the  matter 
of  the  hospital,  Mr.  Slope  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
abandon  his  object.  He  had,  he  thought,  daily  more  and 
more  reason  to  imagine  that  the  widow  would  receive  his 
overtures  favourably,  and  he  could  not  but  feel  that  Mr. 
Harding  at  the  hospital,  and  placed  there  by  his  means, 
would  be  more  likely  to  receive  him  as  a  son-in-law,  than 
Mr.  Harding  growding  in  opposition  and  disappointment 
under  the  archdeacon's  wing  at  Plumstead.  Moreover,  to 
give  Mr.  Slope  due  credit,  he  was  actuated  by  greater  mo- 
tives even  than  these.  He  wanted  a  wife,  and  he  wanted 
money,  but  he  wanted  power  more  than  either.  He  had 
fully  realised  the  fact  that  he  must  come  to  blows  with  Mrs. 
Proudie.  He  had  no  desire  to  remain  in  Barchester  as  her 
chaplain.  Sooner  than  do  so,  he  would  risk  the  loss  of  his 
whole  connection  with  the  diocese.  What !  was  he  to  feel 
within  him  the  possession  of  no  ordinary  talents ;  was  he  to 
know  himself  to  be  courageous,  firm,  and,  in  matters  where 
his  conscience  did  not  interfere,  unscrupulous ;  and  yet  be 
contented  to  be  the  working  factotum  of  a  woman-prelate? 
Mr.  Slope  had  higher  ideas  of  his  own  destiny.  Either  he 
or  Mrs.  Proudie  must  go  to  the  wall ;  and  now  had  come  the 
time  when  he  would  try  which  it  should  be. 

The  bishop  had  declared  that  Mr.  Quiverful  should  be 
the  new  warden.  As  Mr.  Slope  went  down  stairs  prepared 
to  see  the  archdeacon  if  necessary,  but  fully  satisfied  that 
no  such  necessity  would  arise,  he  declared  to  himself  that 
Mr.  Harding  should  be  warden.  With  the  object  of  carry- 
ing this  point,  he  rode  over  to  Puddingdale,  and  had  a 
further  interview  with  the  worthy  expectant  of  clerical  good 
things.  Mr.  Quiverful  was  on  the  whole  a  worthy  man. 
The  impossible  task  of  bringing  up  as  ladies  and  gentlemen 
fourteen  children  on  an  income  which  was  insufficient  to 
give  them  with  decency  the  common  necessaries  of  life,  had 
had  an  efifect  upon  him  not  beneficial  either  to  his  spirit,  or 

221 


BARCHESTER  TOWERS. 

his  keen  sense  of  honour.  Who  can  boast  that  he  would 
have  supported  such  a  burden  with  a  different  result?  Mr. 
Quiverful  was  an  honest,  pains-taking,  drudging  man;  anx- 
ious, indeed,  for  bread  and  meat,  anxious  for  means  to  quiet 
his  butcher  and  cover  with  returning  smiles  the  now  sour 
countenance  of  the  baker's  wife,  but  anxious  also  to  be  right 
with  his  own  conscience.  He  was  not  careful,  as  another 
might  be  who  sat  on  an  easier  worldly  seat,  to  stand  well 
with  those  around  him,  to  shun  a  breath  which  might  sully 
his  name,  or  a  rumour  which  might  affect  his  honour.  He 
could  not  afford  such  niceties  of  conduct,  such  moral  luxur- 
ies. It  must  suffice  for  him  to  be  ordinarily  honest  accord- 
ing to  the  ordinary  honesty  of  the  world's  ways,  and  to  let 
men's  tongues  wag  as  they  would. 

He  had  felt  that  his  brother  clergymen,  men  whom  he 
had  known  for  the  last  twenty  years,  looked  coldly  on  him 
from  the  first  moment  that  he  had  shown  himself  willing 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Slope ;  he  had  seen  that  their  looks 
grew  colder  still,  when  it  became  bruited  about  that  he  was 
to  be  the  bishop's  new  warden  at  Hiram's  hospital.  This 
was  painful  enough ;  but  it  was  the  cross  which  he  was 
doomed  to  bear.  He  thought  of  his  wife,  whose  last  new 
silk  dress  was  six  years  in  wear.  He  thought  of  all  his 
young  flock,  whom  he  could  hardly  take  to  church  with  him 
on  Sundays,  for  there  were  not  decent  shoes  and  stockings 
for  them  all  to  wear.  He  thought  of  the  well-worn  sleeves 
of  his  own  black  coat,  and  of  the  stern  face  of  the  draper 
from  whom  he  would  fain  ask  for  cloth  to  make  another, 
did  he  not  know  that  the  credit  would  be  refused  him.  Then 
he  thought  of  the  comfortable  house  in  Barchester,  of  the 
comfortable  income,  of  his  boys  sent  to  school,  of  his  girls 
with  books  in  their  hands  instead  of  darning  needles,  of  his 
wife's  face  again  covered  with  smiles,  and  of  his  daily  board 
again  covered  with  plenty.  He  thought  of  these  things ;  and 
do  thou  also,  reader,  think  of  them,  and  then  wonder,  if 
thou  canst,  that  Mr.  Slope  had  appeared  to  him  to  possess 
all  those  good  gifts  which  could  grace  a  bishop's  chaplain. 
"How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  him  that 
bringeth  good  things." 

Why,  moreover,  should  the  Barchester  clergy  have  looked 

2,22 


MR.    SLOPE   AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

coldly  on  Mr.  Quiverful?  Had  they  not  all  shown  that 
they  regarded  with  complacency  the  loaves  and  fishes  of 
their  mother  church?  Had  they  not  all,  by  some  hook  or 
crook,  done  better  for  themselves  than  he  had  done?  They 
were  not  burdened  as  he  was  burdened.  Dr.  Grantly  had 
five  children,  and  nearly  as  many  thousands  a  year  on  which 
to  feed  them.  It  was  very  well  for  him  to  turn  up  his  nose 
at  a  new  bishop  who  could  do  nothing  for  him,  and  a  chap- 
lain who  was  beneath  his  notice;  but  it  was  cruel  in  a  man 
so  circumstanced  to  set  the  world  against  the  father  of  four- 
teen children  because  he  was  anxious  to  obtain  for  them  an 
honourable  support !  He,  Mr.  Quiverful,  had  not  asked  for 
the  wardenship ;  he  had  not  even  accepted  it  till  he  had  been 
assured  that  Mr.  Harding  had  refused  it.  How  hard  then 
that  he  should  be  blamed  for  doing  that  which  not  to  have 
done  would  have  argued  a  most  insane  imprudence? 

Thus  in  this  matter  of  the  hospital  poor  Mr.  Quiverful 
had  his  trials ;  and  he  had  also  his  consolations.  On  the  whole 
the  consolations  were  the  more  vivid  of  the  two.  The  stern 
draper  heard  of  the  coming  promotion,  and  the  wealth  of  his 
warehouse  was  at  Mr.  Quiverful's  disposal.  Coming  events 
cast  their  shadows  before,  and  the  coming  event  of  Mr. 
Quiverful's  transference  to  Barchester  produced  a  delicious 
shadow  in  the  shape  of  a  new  outfit  for  Mrs.  Quiverful  and 
her  three  elder  daughters.  Such  consolations  come  home 
to  the  heart  of  a  man,  and  quite  home  to  the  heart  of  a 
woman.  Whatever  the  husband  might  feel,  the  wife  cared 
nothing  for  frowns  of  dean,  archdeacon,  or  prebendary.  To 
her  the  outsides  and  insides  of  her  husband  and  fourteen 
children  were  everything.  In  her  bosom  every  other  am- 
bition had  been  swallowed  up  in  that  maternal  ambition  of 
seeing  them  and  him  and  herself  duly  clad  and  properly  fed. 
It  had  come  to  that  with  her  that  life  had  now  no  other 
purpose.  She  recked  nothing  of  the  imaginary  rights  of 
others.  She  had  no  patience  with  her  husband  when  he  de- 
clared to  her  that  he  could  not  accept  the  hospital  unless  he 
knew  that  Mr.  Harding  had  refused  it.  Her  husband  had 
no  right  to  be  Quixotic  at  the  expense  of  fourteen  children. 
The  narrow  escape  of  throwing  away  his  good  fortune  which 
her  lord  had  had,  almost  paralysed  her.     Now,  indeed,  they 

223 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

had  received  the  full  promise  not  only  from  Mr.  Slope,  but 
also  from  Mrs.  Proudie,  Now,  indeed,  they  might  reckon 
with  safety  on  their  good  fortune.  But  what  if  all  had  been 
lost?  What  if  her  fourteen  bairns  had  been  resteeped  to 
the  hips  in  poverty  by  the  morbid  sentimentality  of  their 
father?  Mrs.  Quiverful  was  just  at  present  a  happy  wom- 
an, but  yet  it  nearly  took  her  breath  away  when  she  thought 
of  the  risk  they  had  run. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  father  means  when  he  talks  so 
much  of  what  is  due  to  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said  to  her  eldest 
daughter.  "Does  he  think  that  Mr.  Harding  would  give 
him  450/.  a  year  out  of  fine  feeling?  And  what  signifies 
it  whom  he  offends,  as  long  as  he  gets  the  place?  He  does 
not  expect  anything  better.  It  passes  me  to  think  how  your 
father  can  be  so  soft,  while  evervbodv  around  him  is  so  grip- 
ing." 

Thus,  while  the  outer  world  was  accusing  Mr.  Quiverful 
of  rapacity  for  promotion  and  of  disregard  to  his  honour, 
the  inner  world  of  his  own  household  was  falling  foul  of 
him,  with  equal  vehemence,  for  his  willingness  to  sacrifice 
their  interest  to  a  false  feeling  of  sentimental  pride.  It  is 
astonishing  how  much  difference  the  point  of  view  makes 
in  the  aspect  of  all  that  we  look  at ! 

Such  were  the  feelings  of  the  different  members  of  the 
family  at  Puddingdale  on  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Slope's  second 
visit.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  as  soon  as  she  saw  his  horse  coming 
up  the  avenue  from  the  vicarage  gate,  hastily  packed  up  her 
huge  basket  of  needlework,  and  hurried  herself  and  her 
daughter  out  of  the  room  in  which  she  was  sitting  with  her 
husband.  "It's  Mr.  Slope,"  she  said.  "He's  come  to  settle 
with  you  about  the  hospital.  I  do  hope  we  shall  now  be  able 
to  move  at  once."  And  she  hastened  to  bid  the  maid  of  all 
work  go  to  the  door,  so  that  the  welcome  great  man  might 
not  be  kept  waiting. 

Mr.  Slope  thus  found  Mr.  Quiverful  alone.  Mrs.  Quiver- 
ful went  off  to  her  kitchen  and  back  settlements  with  anxious 
beating  heart,  almost  dreading  that  there  might  be  some  slip 
between  the  cup  of  her  happiness  and  the  lip  of  her  fruition, 
but  yet  comforting  herself  with  the  reflection  that  after  what 
had  taken  place  any  such  slip  could  hardly  be  possible. 

224 


MR.    SLOPE   AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

Mr.  Slope  was  all  smiles  as  he  shook  his  brother  clergy- 
man's hand,  and  said  that  he  had  ridden  over  because  he 
thought  it  right  at  once  to  put  Mr.  Quiverful  in  possession 
of  the  facts  of  the  matter  regarding  the  wardenship  of  the 
hospital.  As  he  spoke,  the  poor  expectant  husband  and 
father  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  brilliant  hopes  were  to  be 
dashed  to  the  ground,  and  that  his  visitor  was  now  there  for 
the  purpose  of  unsaying  what  on  his  former  visit  he  had 
said.  There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  voice,  some- 
thing in  the  glance  of  the  eye,  which  told  the  tale.  Mr. 
Quiverful  knew  it  all  at  once.  He  maintained  his  self-pos- 
session, however,  smiled  with  a  slight  unmeaning  smile,  and 
merely  said  that  he  was  obliged  to  Mr.  Slope  for  the  trouble 
he  was  taking. 

"It  has  been  a  troublesome  matter  from  first  to  last,"  said 
Mr.  Slope;  "and  the  bishop  has  hardly  known  how  to  act. 
Between  ourselves — but  mind  this  of  course  must  go  no 
further,  Mr.  Quiverful." 

Mr.  Quiverful  said  that  of  course  it  should  not.  "The 
truth  is,  that  poor  Mr.  Harding  has  hardly  known  his  own 
mind.    You  remember  our  last  conversation,  no  doubt." 

Mr.  Quiverful  assured  him  that  he  remembered  it  very 
well  indeed. 

"You  will  remember  that  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Harding 
had  refused  to  return  to  the  hospital." 

Mr.  Quiverful  declared  that  nothing  could  be  more  dis- 
tinct on  his  memory. 

"And  acting  on  this  refusal,  I  suggested  that  you  should 
take  the  hospital,"  continued  Mr.  Slope. 

"I  understood  you  to  say  that  the  bishop  had  authorised 
you  to  offer  it  to  me." 

"Did  I?  Did  I  go  so  far  as  that?  Well,  perhaps  it  may 
be,  that  in  my  anxiety  in  your  behalf  I  did  commit  myself 
further  than  I  should  have  done.  So  far  as  my  own  memory 
serves  me,  I  don't  think  I  did  go  quite  so  far  as  that.  But 
I  own  I  was  very  anxious  that  you  should  get  it ;  and  I  may 
have  said  more  than  was  quite  prudent." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful,  in  his  deep  anxiety  to  prove 
his  case,  "my  wife  received  as  distinct  a  promise  from  Mrs. 
Proudie  as  one  human  being  could  give  to  another." 

225 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

had  received  the  full  promise  not  only  from  Mr.  Slope,  but 
also  from  Mrs.  Proudie.  Now,  indeed,  they  might  reckon 
with  safety  on  their  good  fortune.  But  what  if  all  had  been 
lost?  What  if  her  fourteen  bairns  had  been  resteeped  to 
the  hips  in  poverty  by  the  morbid  sentimentality  of  their 
father?  Mrs.  Quiverful  was  just  at  present  a  happy  wom- 
an, but  yet  it  nearly  took  her  breath  away  when  she  thought 
of  the  risk  they  had  run. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  father  means  when  he  talks  so 
much  of  what  is  due  to  Mr.  Harding,"  she  said  to  her  eldest 
daughter.  "Does  he  think  that  Mr.  Harding  would  give 
him  450/.  a  year  out  of  fine  feeling?  And  what  signifies 
it  whom  he  offends,  as  long  as  he  gets  the  place?  He  does 
not  expect  anything  better.  It  passes  me  to  think  how  your 
father  can  be  so  soft,  while  everybody  around  him  is  so  grip- 
ing." 

Thus,  while  the  outer  world  was  accusing  Mr.  Quiverful 
of  rapacity  for  promotion  and  of  disregard  to  his  honour, 
the  inner  world  of  his  own  household  was  falling  foul  of 
him,  with  equal  vehemence,  for  his  willingness  to  sacrifice 
their  interest  to  a  false  feeling  of  sentimental  pride.  It  is 
astonishing  how  much  difference  the  point  of  view  makes 
in  the  aspect  of  all  that  we  look  at ! 

Such  were  the  feelings  of  the  different  members  of  the 
family  at  Puddingdale  on  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Slope's  second 
visit.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  as  soon  as  she  saw  his  horse  coming 
up  the  avenue  from  the  vicarage  gate,  hastily  packed  up  her 
huge  basket  of  needlework,  and  hurried  herself  and  her 
daughter  out  of  the  room  in  which  she  was  sitting  with  her 
husband.  "It's  Mr.  Slope,"  she  said.  "He's  come  to  settle 
with  you  about  the  hospital.  I  do  hope  we  shall  now  be  able 
to  move  at  once,"  And  she  hastened  to  bid  the  maid  of  all 
work  go  to  the  door,  so  that  the  welcome  great  man  might 
not  be  kept  waiting. 

Mr.  Slope  thus  found  Mr.  Quiverful  alone.  Mrs.  Quiver- 
ful went  off  to  her  kitchen  and  back  settlements  with  anxious 
beating  heart,  almost  dreading  that  there  might  be  some  slip 
between  the  cup  of  her  happiness  and  the  lip  of  her  fruition, 
but  yet  comforting  herself  with  the  reflection  that  after  what 
had  taken  place  any  such  slip  could  hardly  be  possible. 

224 


MR.    SLOPE   AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

Mr.  Slope  was  all  smiles  as  he  shook  his  brother  clergy- 
man's hand,  and  said  that  he  had  ridden  over  because  he 
thought  it  right  at  once  to  put  Mr,  Quiverful  in  possession 
of  the  facts  of  the  matter  regarding  the  wardenship  of  the 
hospital.  As  he  spoke,  the  poor  expectant  husband  and 
father  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  brilliant  hopes  were  to  be 
dashed  to  the  ground,  and  that  his  visitor  was  now  there  for 
the  purpose  of  unsaying  what  on  his  former  visit  he  had 
said.  There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  voice,  some- 
thing in  the  glance  of  the  eye,  which  told  the  tale.  Mr. 
Quiverful  knew  it  all  at  once.  He  maintained  his  self-pos- 
session, however,  smiled  with  a  slight  unmeaning  smile,  and 
merely  said  that  he  was  obliged  to  Mr.  Slope  for  the  trouble 
he  was  taking. 

"It  has  been  a  troublesome  matter  from  first  to  last,"  said 
Mr.  Slope ;  "and  the  bishop  has  hardly  known  how  to  act. 
Between  ourselves — ^but  mind  this  of  course  must  go  no 
further,  Mr.  Quiverful." 

Mr.  Quiverful  said  that  of  course  it  should  not.  "The 
truth  is,  that  poor  Mr.  Harding  has  hardly  known  his  own 
mind.    You  remember  our  last  conversation,  no  doubt." 

Mr.  Quiverful  assured  him  that  he  remembered  it  very 
well  indeed. 

"You  will  remember  that  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Harding 
had  refused  to  return  to  the  hospital." 

Mr.  Quiverful  declared  that  nothing  could  be  more  dis- 
tinct on  his  memory. 

"And  acting  on  this  refusal,  I  suggested  that  you  should 
take  the  hospital,"  continued  Mr.  Slope. 

"I  understood  you  to  say  that  the  bishop  had  authorised 
you  to  offer  it  to  me." 

"Did  I?  Did  I  go  so  far  as  that?  Well,  perhaps  it  may 
be,  that  in  my  anxiety  in  your  behalf  I  did  commit  myself 
further  than  I  should  have  done.  So  far  as  my  own  memory 
serves  me,  I  don't  think  I  did  go  quite  so  far  as  that.  But 
I  own  I  was  very  anxious  that  you  should  get  it ;  and  I  may 
have  said  more  than  was  quite  prudent." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful,  in  his  deep  anxiety  to  prove 
his  case,  "my  wife  received  as  distinct  a  promise  from  Mrs. 
Proudie  as  one  human  being  could  give  to  another." 

"  225 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr,  Slope  smiled,  and  gently  shook  his  head.  He  meant 
that  smile  for  a  pleasant  smile,  but  it  was  diabolical  in  the 
eyes  of  the  man  he  was  speaking  to.  "Mrs.  Proudie !"  he 
said.  "If  we  are  to  go  to  what  passes  between  the  ladies 
in  these  matters,  we  shall  really  be  in  a  nest  of  troubles 
from  which  we  shall  never  extricate  ourselves.  Mrs.  Proudie 
is  a  most  excellent  lady,  kind-hearted,  charitable,  pious,  and 
in  every  way  estimable.  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Quiverful,  the 
patronage  of  the  diocese  is  not  in  her  hands." 

Mr.  Quiverful  for  a  moment  sat  panic-stricken  and  silent. 
"Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  I  have  received  no 
promise?"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  had  sufficiently  collected 
his  thoughts. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  tell  you  exactly  how  the 
matter  rests.  You  certainly  did  receive  a  promise  conditional 
on  Mr.  Harding's  refusal.  I  am  sure  you  will  do  me  the 
justice  to  remember  that  you  yourself  declared  that 
you  could  accept  the  appointment  on  no  other  con- 
dition than  the  knowledge  that  Mr.  Harding  had  de- 
clined it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful ;  "I  did  say  that,  certainly." 

"Well ;  it  now  appears  that  he  did  not  refuse  it." 

"But  surely  you  told  me,  and  repeated  it  more  than  once, 
that  he  had  done  so  in  your  own  hearing." 

"So  I  understood  him.  But  it  seems  I  was  in  error.  But 
don't  for  a  moment,  Mr,  Quiverful,  suppose  that  I  mean 
to  throw  you  over.  No.  Having  held  out  my  hand  to  a 
man  in  your  position,  with  your  large  family  and  pressing 
claims,  I  am  not  now  going  to  draw  it  back  again,  I  only 
want  you  to  act  with  me  fairly  and  honestly." 

"Whatever  I  do,  I  shall  endeavour  at  any  rate  to  act  fair- 
ly," said  the  poor  man,  feeling  that  he  had  to  fall  back  for 
support  on  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  within  him. 

"I  am  sure  you  will,"  said  the  other.  "I  am  sure  you  have 
no  wish  to  obtain  possession  of  an  income  which  belongs 
by  all  right  to  another.  No  man  knows  better  than  you  do 
Mr.  Harding's  history,  or  can  better  appreciate  his  char- 
acter. Mr.  Harding  is  very  desirous  of  returning  to  his  old 
position,  and  the  bishop  feels  that  he  is  at  the  present  mo- 
ment somewhat  hampered,  though  of  course  he  is  not  bound, 

226 


MR.    SLOPE   AT    PUDDINGDALE. 

by  the  conversation  which  took  place  on  the  matter  be^ 
twe^n  you  and  me." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful,  dreadfully  doubtful  as  to 
what  his  conduct  under  such  circumstances  should  be,  and 
fruitlessly  striving  to  harden  his  nerves  with  some  of 
that  instinct  of  self-preservation  which  made  his  wife  so 
bold. 

"The  wardenship  of  this  little  hospital  is  not  the  only  thing 
in  the  bishop's  gift,  Mr.  Quiverful,  nor  is  it  by  many  degrees 
the  best.  And  his  lordship  is  not  the  man  to  forget  any 
one  whom  he  has  once  marked  with  approval.  If  you  would 
allow  me  to  advise  you  as  a  friend " 

"Indeed  I  shall  be  most  grateful  to  you,"  said  the  poor 
vicar  of  Puddingdale 

"I  would  advise  you  to  withdraw  from  any  opposition 
to  Mr.  Harding's  claims.  If  you  persist  in  your  demand, 
I  do  not  think  you  will  ultimately  succeed.  Mr.  Harding 
has  all  but  a  positive  right  to  the  place.  But  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  inform  the  bishop  that  you  decline  to  stand  in 
Mr.  Harding's  way,  I  think  1  may  promise  you — though, 
by  the  bye,  it  must  not  be  taken  as  a  formal  promise — that 
the  bishop  will  not  allow  you  to  be  a  poorer  man  than  you 
would  have  been  had  you  become  warden." 

Mr.  Quiverful  sat  in  his  arm  chair  silent,  gazing  at  va- 
cancy. What  was  he  to  say?  All  this  that  came  from  Mr. 
Slope  was  so  true.  Mr.  Harding  had  a  right  to  the  hospital. 
The  bishop  had  a  great  many  good  things  to  give  away. 
Both  the  bishop  and  Mr.  Slope  would  be  excellent  friends 
and  terrible  enemies  to  a  man  in  his  position.  And  then  he 
had  no  proof  of  any  promise ;  he  could  not  force  the  bishop 
to  appoint  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Quiverful,  what  do  you  say  about  it?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  whatever  you  think  fit,  Mr.  Slope.  It's 
a  great  disapljointment,  a  very  great  disappointment.  I 
won't  deny  that  I  am  a  very  poor  man,  Mr.  Slope." 

"In  the  end,  Mr.  Quiverful,  you  will  find  that  it  will  have 
been  better  for  you." 

The  interview  ended  in  Mr.  Slope  receiving  a  full  re- 
nunciation from  Mr.  Quiverful  of  any  claim  he  might  have 
to  the  appointment  in  question.     It  was  only  given  verbally 

227 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  without  witnesses ;  but  then  the  original  promise  was 
made  in  the  same  way, 

Mr.  Slope  again  assured  him  that  he  would  not  be  for- 
gotten, and  then  rode  back  to  Barchester,  satisfied  that  he 
would  now  be  able  to  mould  the  bishop  to  his  wishes. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

fourteen  arguments  in  favor  of  mr.  quiver- 
ful's    claims. 

WE  have  most  of  us  heard  of  the  terrible  anger  of  a 
lioness  when,  surrounded  by  her  cubs,  she  guards 
her  prey.  Few  of  us  wish  to  disturb  the  mother  of  a  litter 
of  puppies  when  mouthing  a  bone  in  the  midst  of  her  young 
family.  Medea  and  her  children  are  familiar  to  us,  and  so 
is  the  grief  of  Constance.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  when  she  first 
heard  from  her  husband  the  news  which  he  had  to  impart, 
felt  within  her  bosom  all  the  rage  of  a  lioness,  the  rapacity 
of  the  hound,  the  fury  of  the  tragic  queen,  and  the  deep 
despair  of  the  bereaved  mother. 

Doubting,  but  yet  hardly  fearing,  what  might  have  been 
the  tenor  of  Mr.  Slope's  discourse,  she  rushed  back  to  her 
husband  as  soon  as  the  front  door  was  closed  behind  the 
visitor.  It  was  well  for  Mr.  Slope  that  he  so  escaped, — the 
anger  of  such  a  woman,  at  such  a  moment,  would  have 
cowed  even  him.  As  a  general  rule,  it  is  highly  desirable  that 
ladies  should  keep  their  temper ;  a  woman  when  she  storms 
always  makes  herself  ugly,  and  usually  ridiculous  also. 
There  is  nothing  so  odious  to  man  as  a  virago.  Though 
Theseus  loved  an  Amazon,  he  showed  his  love  but  roughly ; 
and  from  the  time  of  Theseus  downward,  no  man  ever 
wished  to  have  his  wife  remarkable  rather  for  forward 
prowess  than  retiring  gentleness.  A  low  voice  "is  an  ex- 
cellent thing  in  woman." 

Such  may  be  laid  down  as  a  very  general  rule ;  and  few 
women  should  allow  themselves  to  deviate  from  it,  and  then 
only  on  rare  occasions.  But  if  there  be  a  time  when  a 
woman  may  let  her  hair  to  the  winds,  when  she  may  loose 

228 


FOURTEEN    ARGUMENTS. 

her  arms,  and  scream  out  trumpet-tongued  to  the  ears  of 
men,  it  is  when  nature  calls  out  within  her  not  for  her  own 
wants,  but  for  the  wants  of  those  whom  her  womb  has 
borne,  whom  her  breasts  have  suckled,  for  those  who  look 
to  her  for  their  daily  bread  as  naturally  as  man  looks  to  his 
Creator. 

There  was  nothing-  poetic  in  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Quiverful. 
She  was  neither  a  Medea  nor  a  Constance.  When  angry, 
she  spoke  out  her  anger  in  plain  words,  and  in  a  tone  which 
might  have  been  modulated  with  advantage ;  but  she  did  so, 
at  any  rate,  without  affectation.  Now,  without  knowing  it, 
she  rose  to  a  tragic  vein. 

"Well,  my  dear;  we  are  not  to  have  it."  Such  were  the 
words  with  which  her  ears  were  greeted  when  she  entered 
the  parlour,  still  hot  from  the  kitchen  fire.  And  the  face  of 
her  husband  spoke  even  more  plainly  than  his  words : — 

"E'en  such  a  man  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone, 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night." 

"What!"  said  she, — and  Mrs.  Siddons  could  not  have 
put  more  passion  into  a  single  syllable, — "What !  not  have 
it?  who  says  so?"  And  she  sat  opposite  to  her  husband, 
with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  hands  clasped  together,  and 
her  coarse,  solid,  but  once  handsome  face  stretched  over  it 
towards  him. 

She  sat  as  silent  as  death  while  he  told  his  story,  and  very 
dreadful  to  him  her  silence  was.  He  told  it  very  lamely  and 
badly,  but  still  in  such  a  manner  that  she  soon  understood  the 
whole  of  it. 

"And  you  have  resigned  it?"  said  she. 

"I  have  had  no  opportunity  of  accepting  it,"  he  replied. 
"I  had  no  witnesses  to  Mr.  Slope's  offer,  even  if  that  offer 
would  bind  the  bishop.  It  was  better  for  me,  on  the  whole, 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  such  men  than  to  fight  for  what 
I  should  never  get !" 

"Witnesses !"  she  screamed,  rising  quickly  to  her  feet,  and 
walking  up  and  down  the  room.  "Do  clergymen  require 
witnesses  to  their  words?  He  made  the  promise  in  the  bish- 
op's name,  and  if  it  is  to  be  broken,  I'll  know  the  reason 

229 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

why.  Did  he  not  positively  say  that  the  bishop  had  sent  him 
to  offer  you  the  place?" 

"He  did,  my  dear.  But  that  is  now  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose." 

"It  is  everything  to  the  purpose,  Mr.  Quiverful.  Witnesses 
indeed !  and  then  to  talk  of  your  honour  being  questioned, 
because  you  wish  to  provide  for  fourteen  children.  It  is 
everything  to  the  purpose ;  and  so  they  shall  know,  if  I  scream 
it  into  their  ears  from  the  town  cross  of  Barchester." 

"You  forget,  Letitia,  that  the  bishop  has  so  many  things  in 
his  gift.     We  must  wait  a  little  longer.    That  is  all." 

"Wait!  Shall  we  feed  the  children  by  waiting?  Will 
waiting  put  George,  and  Tom,  and  Sam,  out  into  the  world? 
Will  it  enable  my  poor  girls  to  give  up  some  of  their  drudg- 
ery? Will  waiting  make  Bessy  and  Jane  fit  even  to  be  gov- 
ernesses? Will  waiting  pay  for  the  things  we  got  in  Bar- 
chester last  week?" 

"It  is  all  we  can  do,  my  dear.  The  disappointment  is  as 
much  to  me  as  to  you ;  and  yet,  God  knows,  I  feel  it  more  for 
your  sake  than  my  own." 

Mrs.  Quiverful  was  looking  full  into  her  husband's  face, 
and  saw  a  small  hot  tear  appear  on  each  of  those  furrowed 
cheeks.  This  was  too  much  for  her  woman's  heart.  He  also 
had  risen,  and  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  empty  grate. 
She  rushed  towards  him,  and,  seizing  him  in  her  arms, 
sobbed  aloud  upon  his  bosom. 

"You  are  too  good,  too  soft,  too  yielding,"  she  said  at 
last.  "These  men,  when  they  want  you,  they  use  you  like  a 
cat's-paw ;  and  when  they  want  you  no  longer,  they  throw 
you  aside  like  an  old  shoe.  This  is  twice  they  have  treated 
you  so." 

"In  one  way  this  will  be  all  for  the  better,"  argued  he. 
"It  will  make  the  bishop  feel  that  he  is  bound  to  do  something 
for  me." 

"At  any  rate,  he  shall  hear  of  it,"  said  the  lady,  again  re- 
verting to  her  more  angry  mood.  "At  any  rate  he  shall  hear 
of  it,  and  that  loudly ;  and  so  shall  she.  She  little  knows 
Letitia  Quiverful  if  she  thinks  I  will  sit  down  quietly  with 
the  loss  after  all  that  passed  between  us  at  the  palace.  If 
there's  any  feeling  within  her,  I'll  make  her  ashamed  of  her- 

230 


FOURTEEN    ARGUMENTS. 

self," — and  she  paced  the  room  again,  stamping  the  floor  as 
she  went  with  her  fat  heavy  foot.  "Good  heavens !  what 
a  heart  she  must  have  within  her  to  treat  in  such  a  way  as  this 
the  father  of  fourteen  unprovided  children !" 

Mr.  Quiverful  proceeded  to  explain  that  he  didn't  think 
that  Mrs.^roudie  had  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Quiverful.  "I  know  more  about 
it  than  that.  Doesn't  all  the  world  know  that  Mrs.  Proudie  is 
bishop  of  Barchester,  and  that  Mr.  Slope  is  merely  her  crea- 
ture? Wasn't  it  she  that  made  me  the  promise,  just  as 
though  the  thing  was  in  her  own  particular  gift?  I  tell  you, 
it  was  that  woman  who  sent  him  over  here  to-day,  because, 
for  some  reason  of  her  own,  she  wants  to  go  back  from  her 
word." 

"My  dear,  you're  wrong — "  , 

"Now,  Q.,  don't  be  so  soft,"  she  continued.  "Take  my 
word  for  it,  the  bishop  knows  no  more  about  it  than  Jemima 
does."  Jemima  was  the  two-year-old.  "And  if  you'll  take 
my  advice,  you'll  lose  no  time  in  going  over  and  seeing  him 
yourself." 

Soft,  however,  as  Mr.  Quiverful  might  be,  he  would  not 
allow  himself  to  be  talked  out  of  his  opinion  on  this  occa- 
sion ;  and  proceeded  with  much  minuteness  to  explain  to  his 
wife  the  tone  in  which  Mr.  Slope  had  spoken  of  Mrs. 
Proudie's  interference  in  diocesan  matters.  As  he  did  so,  a 
new  idea  gradually  instilled  itself  into  the  matron's  head, 
and  a  new  course  of  conduct  presented  itself  to  her  judg- 
ment. What  if,  after  all,  Mrs.  Proudie  knew  nothing  of  this 
visit  of  Mr.  Slope's?  In  that  case,  might  it  not  be  possible 
that  that  lady  would  still  be  staunch  to  her  in  this  matter, 
still  stand  her  friend,  and,  perhaps,  possibly  carry  her  through 
in  opposition  to  Mr.  Slope?  Mrs.  Quiverful  said  nothing  as 
this  vague  hope  occurred  to  her.  but  listened  with  more  than 
ordinary  patience  to  what  her  husband  had  to  say.  While 
he  was  still  explaining  that  in  all  probability  the  world  was 
wrong  in  its  estimation  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  power  and  author- 
itv,  she  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  as  to  her  course  of  action. 
She  did  not,  however,  proclaim  her  intention.  She  shook  her 
head  ominously  as  he  continued  his  narration ;  and  when  he 
had  completed  she  rose  to  go.  merely  observing  that  it  was 

231 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

cruel,  cruel  treatment.  She  then  asked  him  if  he  would 
mind  waiting  for  a  late  dinner  instead  of  dining  at  their  usual 
hour  of  three,  and,  having  received  from  him  a  concession  on 
this  point,  she  proceeded  to  carry  her  purpose  into  execution. 

She  determined  that  she  would  at  once  go  to  the  palace; 
that  she  would  do  so,  if  possible,  before  Mrs.  Proudie  could 
have  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Slope ;  and  that  she  would  be 
either  submissive  piteous  and  pathetic,  or  else  indignant  vio- 
lent and  exacting,  according  to  the  manner  in  which  she  was 
received. 

She  was  quite  confident  in  her  own  power.  Strengthened 
as  she  was  by  the  pressing  wants  of  fourteen  children,  she 
felt  she  could  make  her  way  through  legions  of  episcopal 
servants,  and  force  herself,  if  need  be,  into  the  presence  of 
the  lady  who  had  so  wronged  her.  She  had  no  shame  about 
it,  no  maiiz'aise  honte,  no  dread  of  archdeacons.  She  would, 
as  she  declared  to  her  husband,  make  her  wail  heard  in  the 
market-place  if  she  did  not  get  redress  and  justice.  It  might 
be  very  well  for  an  unmarried  young  curate  to  be  shamefaced 
in  such  matters ;  it  might  be  all  right  that  a  snug  rector, 
really  in  want  of  nothing,  but  still  looking  for  preferment, 
should  carry  on  his  affairs  decently  under  the  rose.  But 
Mrs.  Quiverful,  with  fourteen  children,  had  given  over  being 
shamefaced,  and,  in  some  things,  had  given  over  being  de- 
cent. If  it  were  intended  that  she  should  be  ill-used  in  the 
manner  proposed  by  Mr.  Slope,  it  should  not  be  done  under 
the  rose.     All  the  world  should  know  of  it. 

In  her  present  mood,  Mrs.  Quiverful  was  not  over  careful 
about  her  attire.  She  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin,  drew 
her  shawl  over  her  shoulder,  armed  herself  with  the  old  family 
cotton  umbrella,  and  started  for  Barchester.  A  journey  to 
the  palace  was  not  quite  so  easy  a  thing  for  Mrs.  Quiverful 
as  for  our  friend  at  Plumstead.  Plumstead  is  nine  miles  from 
Barchester,  and  Puddingdale  is  but  four.  But  the  arch- 
deacon could  order  round  his  brougham,  and  his  high-trotting 
fast  bay  gelding  would  take  him  into  the  city  within  the  hour. 
There  was  no  brougham  in  the  coach-house  of  Puddingdale 
Vicarage,  no  bay  horse  in  the  stables.  There  was  no  method 
of  locomotion  for  its  inhabitants  but  that  which  nature  has 
assigned  to  man. 

232 


FOURTEEN    ARGUMENTS. 

Mrs.  Quiverful  was  a  broad  heavy  woman,  not  young,  nor 
given  to  walking.  In  her  kitclien,  and  in  the  family  dormi- 
tories, she  was  active  enough ;  but  her  pace  and  gait  were  not 
adapted  for  the  road.  A  walk  into  Barchester  and  back  in  the 
middle  of  an  August  day  would  be  to  her  a  terrible  task,  if 
not  altogether  impracticable.  There  was  living  in  the  parish, 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  vicarage  on  the  road  to  the  city, 
a  decent,  kindly  farmer,  well  to  do  as  regards  this  world,  and 
so  far  mindful  of  the  next  that  he  attended  his  parish  church 
with  decent  regularity.  To  him  Mrs.  Quiverful  had  before 
now  appealed  in  some  of  her  more  pressing  family  troubles, 
and  had  not  appealed  in  vain.  At  his  door  she  now  presented 
herself,  and  having  explained  to  his  wife  that  most  urgent 
business  required  her  to  go  at  once  to  Barchester,  begged 
that  Farmer  Subsoil  would  take  her  thither  in  his  tax-cart. 
The  farmer  did  not  reject  her  plan;  and,  as  soon  as  Prince 
could  be  got  into  his  collar,  they  started  on  their  journey. 

Mrs.  Quiverful  did  not  mention  the  purpose  of  her  busi- 
ness, nor  did  the  farmer  alloy  his  kindness  by  any  unseemly 
questions.  She  merely  begged  to  be  put  down  at  the  bridge 
going  into  the  city,  and  to  be  taken  up  again  at  the  same  place 
in  the  course  of  two  hours.  The  farmer  promised  to  be 
punctual  to  his  appointment,  and  the  lady,  supported  by  her 
umbrella,  took  the  short  cut  to  the  close,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
was  at  the  bishop's  door. 

Hitherto  she  had  felt  no  dread  with  regard  to  the  coming 
interview.  She  had  felt  nothing  but  an  indignant  longing  to 
pour  forth  her  claims,  and  declared  her  wrongs,  if  those  claims 
were  not  fully  admitted.  But  now  the  difficulty  of  her  situa- 
tion touched  her  a  little.  She  had  been  at  the  palace  once 
before,  but  then  she  went  to  give  grateful  thanks.  Those 
who  have  thanks  to  return  for  favours  received  find  easy  ad- 
mittance to  the  halls  of  the  great.  Such  is  not  always  the 
case  with  men,  or  even  with  women,  who  have  favours  to 
beg.  Still  less  easy  is  access  for  those  who  demand  the  ful- 
filment of  promises  already  made. 

Mrs.  Quiverful  had  not  been  slow  to  learn  the  ways  of  the 
world.  She  knew  all  this,  and  she  knew  also  that  her  cotton 
umbrella  and  all  but  ragged  shawl  would  not  command  re- 
spect in  the  eyes  of  the  palatial  servants.     If  she  were  too 

233 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

humble,  she  knew  well  that  she  would  never  succeed.  To 
overcome  by  imperious  overbearing  with  such  a  shawl  as  hers 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  such  a  bonnet  on  her  head,  would 
have  required  a  personal  bearing  very  superior  to  that  with 
which  nature  had  endowed  her.  Of  this  also  Mrs.  Quiverful 
was  aware.  She  must  make  it  known  that  she  was  the  wife 
of  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman,  and  must  yet  condescend  to 
conciliate. 

The  poor  lady  knew  but  one  way  to  overcome  these  diffi- 
culties at  the  very  threshold  of  her  enterprise,  and  to  this  she 
resorted.  Low  as  were  the  domestic  funds  at  Puddingdale, 
she  still  retained  possession  of  half-a-crown,  and  this  she 
sacrificed  to  the  avarice  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  metropolitan  ses- 
quipedalian serving-man.  She  was,  she  said,  Mrs.  Quiverful 
of  Puddingdale,  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Quiverful.  She 
wished  to  see  Mrs.  Proudie.  It  was  indeed  quite  indispensa- 
ble that  she  should  see  Mrs.  Proudie.  James  Fitzplush 
looked  worse  than  dubious,  did  not  know  whether  his  lady 
were  out,  or  engaged  or  in  her  bed-room ;  thought  it  most 
probable  she  was  subject  to  one  of  these  or  to  some  other 
cause  that  would  make  her  invisible ;  but  Mrs.  Quiverful 
could  sit  down  in  the  waiting-room  while  inquiry  was  being 
made  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  maid. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Mrs.  Quiverful ;  "I  must  see 
her ;"  and  she  put  her  card  and  half-a-crown — think  of  it,  my 
reader,  think  of  it;  her  last  half-crown — into  the  man's  hand, 
and  sat  herself  down  on  a  chair  in  the  waiting-room. 

Whether  the  bribe  carried  the  day,  or  whether  the  bishop's 
wife  really  chose  to  see  the  vicar's  wife,  it  boots  not  now  to 
inquire.  The  man  returned,  and  begging  Mrs.  Quiverful  to 
follow  him,  ushered  her  into  the  presence  of  the  mistress  of 
the  diocese. 

Mrs.  Quiverful  at  once  saw  that  her  patroness  was  in  a 
smiling  humour.  Triumph  sat  throned  upon  her  brow,  and 
all  the  joys  of  dominion  hovered  about  her  curls.  Her  lord 
had  that  morning  contested  with  her  a  great  point.  He  had 
received  an  invitation  to  spend  a  couple  of  days  with  the 
archbishop.  His  soul  longed  for  the  gratification.  Not  a 
word,  however,  in  his  grace's  note  alluded  to  the  fact  of  his 
being  a  married  man ;  and,  if  he  went  at  all,  he  must  go  alone. 

234 


FOURTEEN    ARGUMENTS. 

This  necessity  would  have  presented  no  insurmountable  bar 
to  the  visit,  or  have  militated  much  against  the  pleasure,  had 
he  been  able  to  go  without  any  reference  to  Mrs.  Proudie. 
But  this  he  could  not  do.  He  could  not  order  his  portmanteau 
to  be  packed,  and  start  with  his  own  man  merely  telling  the 
lady  of  his  heart  that  he  would  probably  be  back  on  Saturday. 
There  are  men — may  we  not  rather  say  monsters? — who  do 
such  things;  and  there  are  wives — may  we  not  rather  say 
slaves? — who  put  up  with  such  usage.  But  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Proudie  were  not  among  the  number. 

The  bishop,  with  some  beating  about  the  bush,  made  the 
lady  understand  that  he  very  much  wished  to  go.  The  lady, 
without  any  beating  about  the  bush,  made  the  bishop  under- 
stand that  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  It  would  be  useless  here 
to  repeat  the  arguments  that  were  used  on  each  side,  and 
needless  to  record  the  result.  Those  who  are  married  will 
understand  very  well  how  the  battle  was  lost  and  won  ;  and 
those  who  are  single  will  never  understand  it  till  they  learn 
the  lesson  which  experience  alone  can  give.  When  Mrs. 
Quiverful  was  shown  into  Mrs.  Proudie's  room,  that  lady 
had  only  returned  a  few  minutes  from  her  lord.  But  before 
she  left  him  she  had  seen  the  answer  to  the  archbishop's 
note  written  and  sealed.  No  wonder  that  her  face  was 
wreathed  with  smiles  as  she  received  Mrs.  Quiverful. 

She  instantly  spoke  of  the  subject  which  was  so  near  the 
heart  of  her  visitor.  "Well,  Mrs.  Quiverful,"  said  she,  "is 
it  decided  yet  when  you  are  to  move  into  Barchester?" 

"That  woman,"  as  she  had  an  hour  or  two  since  been 
called,  became  instantly  re-endowed  with  all  the  graces  that 
can  adorn  a  bishop's  wife.  Mrs.  Quiverful  immediately  saw 
that  her  business  was  to  be  piteous,  and  that  nothing  was  to 
be  gained  by  indignation  ;  nothing,  indeed,  unless  she  could  be 
indignant  in  company  with  her  patroness. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Proudie,"  she  began,  "I  fear  we  are  not  to  move 
to  Barchester  at  all." 

"Why  not?"  said  that  lady  sharply,  dropping  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  her  smiles  and  condescension,  and  turning  with 
her  sharp  quick  way  to  business  which  she  saw  at  a  glance 
was  important. 

And  then  Mrs.  Quiverful  told  her  tale.    As  she  progressed 

235 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

in  the  history  of  her  wrongs  she  perceived  that  the  heavier 
she  leant  upon  Mr.  Slope  the  blacker  became  Mrs.  Proudie's 
brow,  but  that  such  blackness  was  not  injurious  to  her  own 
cause.  When  Mr.  Slope  was  at  Puddingdale  vicarage  that 
morning  she  had  regarded  him  as  the  creature  of  the  lady- 
bishop  ;  now  she  perceived  that  they  were  enemies.  She  ad- 
mitted her  mistake  to  herself  without  any  paiti  or  humilia- 
tion. She  had  but  one  feeling,  and  that  was  confined  to  her 
family.  She  cared  little  how  she  twisted  and  turned  among 
these  new  comers  at  the  bishop's  palace  so  long  as  she  could 
twist  her  husband  into  the  warden's  house.  She  cared 
not  which  was  her  friend  or  which  was  her  enemy,  if 
only  she  could  get  this  preferment  which  she  so  sorely 
wanted. 

She  told  her  tale,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  listened  to  it  almost  in 
silence.  She  told  how  Mr.  Slope  had  cozened  her  husband 
into  resigning  his  claim,  and  had  declared  that  it  was  the 
bishop's  will  that  none  but  Mr.  Harding  should  be  warden. 
Mrs.  Proudie's  brow  became  blacker  and  blacker.  At  last 
she  started  from  her  chair,  and  begging  Mrs.  Quiverful  to  sit 
and  wait  for  her  return,  marched  out  of  the  room). 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Proudie,  it's  for  fourteen  children — for  fourteen 
children."  Such  was  the  burden  that  fell  on  her  ear  as  she 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

MRS.    PROUDIE   WRESTLES  AND  GETS   A  FALL. 

IT  was  hardly  an  hour  since  Mrs.  Proudie  had  left  her 
husband's  apartment  victorious,  and  yet  so  indomitable 
was  her  courage  that  she  now  returned  thither  panting  for 
another  combat.  She  was  greatly  angry  with  what  she 
thought  was  his  duplicity.  He  had  so  clearly  given  her  a 
promise  on  this  matter  of  the  hospital.  He  had  been  already 
so  absolutely  vanquished  on  that  point.  Mrs.  Proudie  began 
to  feel  that  if  every  afifair  was  to  be  thus  discussed  and  bat- 
tled about  twice  and  even  thrice,  the  work  of  the  diocese 
would  be  too  much  even  for  her. 

236 


MRS.   PROUDIE  WRESTLES   AND   GETS   A   FALL. 

Without  knocking  at  the  door  she  walked  quickly  into  her 
husband's  room,  and  found  him  seated  at  his  office  table, 
with  Mr.  Slope  opposite  to  him.  Between  his  fingers  was  the 
very  note  which  he  had  written  to  the  archbishop  in  her 
presence and  it  was  open !  Yes,  he  had  absolutely  vio- 
lated the  seal  which  had  been  made  sacred  by  her  approval. 
They  were  sitting  in  deep  conclave,  and  it  was  too  clear  that 
the  purport  of  the  archbishop's  invitation  had  been  absolutely 
canvassed  again,  after  it  had  been  already  debated  and  decided 
on  in  obedience  to  her  behests !  Mr.  Slope  rose  from  his  chair 
and  bowed  slightly.  The  two  opposing  spirits  looked  each 
other  fully  in  the  face,  and  they  knew  that  they  were  looking 
each  at  an  enemy. 

"What  is  this,  bishop,  about  Mr.  Quiverful  ?"  said  she,  com- 
ing to  the  end  of  the  table  and  standing  there. 

Mr.  Slope  did  not  allow  the  bishop  to  answer,  but  replied 
himself.  "I  have  been  out  to  Puddingdale  this  morning, 
ma'am,  and  have  seen  Mr.  Quiverful.  Mr.  Quiverful  has 
abandoned  his  claim  to  the  hospital,  because  he  is  now  aware 
that  Mr.  Harding  is  desirous  to  fill  his  old  place.  Under 
these  circumstances  I  have  strongly  advised  his  lordship  to 
nominate  Mr.  Harding." 

"Mr.  Quiverful  has  not  abandoned  anything,"  said  the  lady, 
with  a  very  imperious  voice.  "His  lordship's  word  has  been 
pledged  to  him,  and  it  must  be  respected." 

The  bishop  still  remained  silent.  He  was  anxiously  desir- 
ous of  making  his  old  enemy  bite  the  dust  beneath  his  feet. 
His  new  ally  had  told  him  that  nothing  was  more  easy  for 
him  than  to  do  so.  The  ally  was  there  now  at  his  elbow  to 
help  him,  and  yet  his  courage  failed  him.  It  is  so  hard  to 
conquer  when  the  prestige  of  former  victories  is  all  against 
one.  It  is  so  hard  for  the  cock  who  has  once  been  beaten  out 
of  his  yard  to  resume  his  courage  and  again  take  a  proud 
place  upon  a  dunghill. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  interfere,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "but 
yet " 

"Certainly  you  ought  not,"  said  the  infuriated  dame. 

"But  yet."  continued  Mr.  Slope,  not  regarding  the  inter- 
ruption, "I  have  thought  it  my  imperative  duty  to  recommend 
the  bishop  not  to  slight  Mr.  Harding's  claims." 

237 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Mr.  Harding  should  have  known  his  own  mind,"  said  the 
lady. 

"If  Mr.  Harding  be  not  replaced  in  the  hospital,  his  lord- 
ship will  have  to  encounter  much  ill  will,  not  only  in  the  dio- 
cese, but  in  the  world  at  large.  Besides,  taking  a  higher 
ground,  his  lordship,  as  I  understand,  feels  it  to  be  his  duty 
to  gratify,  in  this  matter,  so  very  worthy  a  man  and  so  good 
a  clergyman  as  Mr.  Harding." 

"And  what  is  to  become  of  the  Sabbath-day  school,  and  of 
the  Sunday  services  in  the  hospital  ?"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  with 
something  very  nearly  approaching  to  a  sneer  on  her  face. 

"I  understand  that  Mr.  Harding  makes  no  objection  to  the 
Sabbath-day  school,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "And  as  to  the  hos- 
pital services,  that  matter  will  be  best  discussed  after  his  ap- 
pointment. If  he  has  any  permanent  objection,  then,  I  fear, 
the  matter  must  rest." 

"You  have  a  very  easy  conscience  in  such  matters,  Mr. 
Slope,"  said  she. 

"I  should  not  have  an  easy  conscience,"  he  rejoined,  "but  a 
conscience  very  far  from  being  easy,  if  anything  said  or  done 
by  me  should  lead  the  bishop  to  act  unadvisedly  in  this  mat- 
ter. It  is  clear  that  in  the  interview  I  had  with  Mr.  Harding, 
I  misunderstood  him " 

"And  it  is  equally  clear  that  you  have  misunderstood  Mr. 
Quiverful,"  said  she,  now  at  the  top  of  her  wrath.  "What 
business  have  you  at  all  with  these  interviews?  Who  de- 
sired you  to  go  to  Mr.  Quiverful  this  morning?  Who  com- 
missioned you  to  manage  this  affair?  Will  you  answer  me, 
sir? — who  sent  you  to  Mr.  Quiverful  this  morning?" 

There  was  a  dead  pause  in  the  room.  Mr.  Slope  had  risen 
from  his  chair,  and  was  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  back 
of  it,  looking  at  first  very  solemn  and  now  very  black.  Mrs. 
Proudie  was  standing  as  she  had  at  first  placed  herself,  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  and  as  she  interrogated  her  foe  she  struck 
her  hand  upon  it  with  almost  more  than  feminine  vigour. 
The  bishop  was  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  twiddling  his  thumbs, 
turning  his  eyes  now  to  his  wife,  and  now  to  his  chaplain,  as 
each  took  up  the  cudgels.  How  comfortable  it  would  be  if 
they  could  fight  it  out  between  them  without  the  necessity  of 
any  interference  on  his  part ;  fight  it  out  so  that  one  should 

238 


MRS.   PROUDIE  WRESTLES   AND   GETS   A   FALL. 

kill  the  other  utterly,  as  far  as  diocesan  life  was  concerned, 
so  that  he,  the  bishop,  might  know  clearly  by  whom  it  be- 
hooved him  to  be  led.  There  would  be  the  comfort  of  quiet 
in  either  case ;  but  if  the  bishop  had  a  wish  as  to  which  might 
prove  the  victor,  that  wish  was  certainly  not  antagonistic  to 
Mr.  Slope. 

"Better  the  d you  know  than  the  d you  don't 

know,"  is  an  old  saying,  and  perhaps  a  true  one;  but  the 
bishop  had  not  yet  realised  the  truth  of  it. 

"Will  you  answer  me,  sir?"  she  repeated.  "Who  instructed 
you  to  call  on  Mr.  Quiverful  this  morning?"  There  was  an- 
other pause.    "Do  you  intend  to  answer  me,  sir?" 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Proudie,  that  under  all  the  circumstances 
it  will  be  better  for  me  not  to  answer  such  a  question,"  said 
Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Slope  had  many  tones  in  his  voice,  all 
duly -under  his  command;  among  them  was  a  sanctified 
low  tone,  and  a  sanctified  loud  tone;  and  he  now  used  the 
former. 

"Did  any  one  send  you,  sir?" 

"Mrs.  Proudie,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "I  am  quite  aware  how 
much  I  owe  to  your  kindness.  I  am  aware  also  what  is  due 
by  courtesy  from  a  gentleman  to  a  lady.  But  there  are  higher 
considerations  than  either  of  those,  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  for- 
given if  I  now  allow  myself  to  be  actuated  solely  by  them. 
My  duty  in  this  matter  is  to  his  lordship,  and  I  can  admit  of 
no  questioning  but  from  him.  He  has  approved  of  what  I 
have  done,  and  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  say,  that  having  that 
approval  and  my  own,  I  want  none  other." 

What  horrid  words  were  these  which  greeted  the  ear  of 
Mrs.  Proudie?  The  matter  was  indeed  clear.  There  was 
premeditated  mutiny  in  the  camp.  Not  only  had  ill-condi- 
tioned minds  become  insubordinate  by  the  fruition  of  a  little 
power,  but  sedition  had  been  overtly  taught  and  preached. 
The  bishop  had  hot  yet  been  twelve  months  in  his  chair,  and 
rebellion  had  already  reared  her  hideous  head  within  the 
palace.  Anarchy  and  misrule  would  quickly  follow,  unless 
she  took  immediate  and  strong  measures  to  put  down  the  con- 
"spiracy  which  she  had  detected. 

"Mr.  Slope,"  she  said,  with  slow  and  dignified  voice,  diflfer- 
ing  much  from  that  which  she  had  hitherto  used,  "Mr.  Slope, 

239 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

I  will  trouble  you,  if  you  please,  to  leave  the  apartment.     I 
wish  to  speak  to  my  lord  alone." 

Mr.  Slope  also  felt  that  everything  depended  on  the  pres- 
ent interview.  Should  the  bishop  now  be  repetticoated,  his 
thraldom  would  be  complete  and  for  ever.  The  present  mo- 
ment was  peculiarly  propitious  for  rebellion.  The  bishop 
had  clearly  committed  himself  by  breaking  the  seal  of  the 
answer  to  the  archbishop ;  he  had  therefore  fear  to  influence 
him.  Mr.  Slope  had  told  him  that  no  consideration  ought  to 
induce  him  to  refuse  the  archbishop's  invitation ;  he  had 
therefore  hope  to  influence  him.  He  had  accepted  Mr.  Quiv- 
erful's resignation,  and  therefore  dreaded  having  to  renew 
that  matter  with  his  wife.  He  had  been  screwed  up  to  the 
pitch  of  asserting  a  will  of  his  own,  and  might  possibly  be 
carried  on  till  by  an  absolute  success  he  should  have  been 
taught  how  possible  it  was  to  succeed.  Now  was  the  moment 
for  victory  or  rout.  It  was  now  that  Mr.  Slope  must  make 
himself  master  of  the  diocese,  or  else  resign  his  place  and  bc' 
gin  his  search  for  fortune  again.  He  saw  all  this  plainly. 
After  what  had  taken  place  any  compromise  between  him  and 
the  lady  was  impossible.  Let  him  once  leave  the  room  at  her 
bidding,  and  leave  the  bishop  in  her  hands,  and  he  might  at 
once  pack  up  his  portmanteau  and  bid  adieu  to  episcopal  hon- 
ours, Mrs.  Bold,  and  the  Signora  Neroni. 

And  yet  it  was  not  so  easy  to  keep  his  ground  when  he 
was  bidden  by  a  lady  to  go ;  or  to  continue  to  make  a  third  in 
a  party  between  husband  and  wife  when  the  wife  expressed  a 
wish  for  a  tete-a-tete  with  her  husband. 

"Mr.  Slope,"  she  repeated,  'T  wish  to  be  alone  with  my 
lord." 

"His  lordship  has  summoned  me  on  most  important  dioce- 
san business,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  glancing  with  uneasy  eye  at  Dr. 
Proudie.  He  felt  that  he  must  trust  something  to  the  bishop, 
and  yet  that  trust  was  so  woefully  ill-placed.  "My  leaving 
him  at  the  present  moment  is,  I  fear,  impossible." 

"Do  you  bandy  words  with  me,  you  ungrateful  man  ?"  said 
she.  "My  lord,  will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  beg  Mr.  Slope  to 
leave  the  room?" 

My  lord  scratched  his  head,  but  for  the  moment  said  noth- 
ing.    This  was  as  much  as  Mr.  Slope  expected  from  him, 

240 


MRS.   PROUDIE  WRESTLES   AND   GETS   A   FALL. 

and  was  on  the  whole,  for  him,  an  active  exercise  of  marital 
rights. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  lady,  "is  Mr.  Slope  to  leave  this  room, 
or  am  I  ?" 

Here  Mrs.  Proudie  made  a  false  step.  She  should  not 
have  alluded  to  the  possibility  of  retreat  on  her  part.  She 
should  not  have  expressed  the  idea  that  her  order  for  Mr. 
Slope's  expulsion  could  be  treated  otherwise  than  by  imme- 
diate obedience.  In  answer  to  such  a  question  the  bishop 
naturally  said  in  his  own  mind  that  as  it  was  necessary  that 
one  should  leave  the  room,  perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  that 
Mrs.  Proudie  did  so.  He  did  say  so  in  his  own  mind,  but  ex- 
ternally he  again  scratched  his  head  and  again  twiddled  his 
thumbs. 

Mrs.  Proudie  was  boiling  over  with  wrath.  Alas,  alas ! 
could  she  but  have  kept  her  temper  as  her  enemy  did,  she 
would  have  conquered  as  she  had  ever  conquered.  But  divine 
anger  got  the  better  of  her,  as  it  has  done  of  other  heroines, 
and  she  fell. 

"My  lord,"  said  she,  "am  I  to  be  vouchsafed  an  answer  or 
am  I  not?" 

At  last  he  broke  the  deep  silence  and  proclaimed  himself  a 
Slopeite.  "Why,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "Mr.  Slope  and  I  are 
very  busy." 

That  was  all.  There  was  nothing  more  necessary.  He 
had  gone  to  the  battle-field,  stood  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  day, 
encountered  the  fury  of  the  foe,  and  won  the  victory.  How 
easy  is  success  to  those  who  will  only  be  true  to  themselves ! 

Mr.  Slope  saw  at  once  the  full  amount  of  his  gain,  and 
turned  on  the  vanquished  lady  a  look  of  triumph  which  she 
never  forgot  and  never  forgave.  Here  he  was  wrong.  He 
should  have  looked  humbly  at  her,  and  with  meek  entreating 
eye  have  deprecated  her  anger.  He  should  have  said  by  his 
glance  that  he  asked  pardon  for  his  success,  and  that  he 
hoped  forgiveness  for  the  stand  which  he  had  been  forced  to 
make  in  the  cause  of  duty.  So  might  he  perchance  have 
somewhat  mollified  that  imperious  bosom,  and  prepared  the 
way  for  future  terms.  But  Mr.  Slope  meant  to  rule  without 
terms.  Ah,  forgetful,  inexperienced  man !  Can  you  cause 
th?it  little  trembling  victim  to  be  divorced  from  the  woman 

i«  241 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

that  possesses  him  ?  Can  you  provide  that  they  shall  be  sepa- 
rated at  bed  and  board  ?  Is  he  not  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  bone 
of  her  bone,  and  must  he  not  so  continue  ?  It  is  very  well  now 
for  you  to  stand  your  ground  and  triumph  as  she  is  driven  ig- 
nominiously  from  the  room,  but  can  you  be  present  when 
those  curtains  are  drawn,  when  that  awful  helmet  of  proof 
has  been  tied  beneath  the  chin,  when  the  small  remnants  of 
the  bishop's  prowess  shall  be  cowed  by  the  tassel  above  his 
head?  Can  you  then  intrude  yourself  when  the  wife  wishes 
"to  speak  to  my  lord  alone?" 

But  for  the  moment  Mr.  Slope's  triumph  was  complete ;  for 
Mrs.  Proudie  without  further  parley  left  the  room,  and  did 
not  forget  to  shut  the  door  after  her.  Then  followed  a 
short  conference  between  the  new  allies,  in  which  was  said 
much  which  it  astonished  Mr.  Slope  to  say  and  the  bishop  to 
hear.  And  yet  the  one  said  it  and  the  other  heard  it  without 
ill  will.  There  was  no  mincing  of  matters  now.  The  chaplain 
plainly  told  the  bishop  that  the  world  gave  him  credit  for 
being  under  the  governance  of  his  wife;  that  his  credit  and 
character  in  the  diocese  were  suffering;  that  he  would  surely 
get  himself  into  hot  water  if  he  allowed  Mrs.  Proudie  to 
interfere  in  matters  which  were  not  suitable  for  a  woman's 
powers ;  and  in  fact  that  he  would  become  contemptible 
if  he  did  not  throw  off  the  yoke  under  which  he  groaned.  The 
bishop  at  first  hummed  and  hawed,  and  affected  to  deny  the 
truth  of  what  was  said.  But  his  denial  was  not  stout  and 
quickly  broke  down.  He  soon  admitted  by  silence  his  state 
of  vassalage,  and  pledged  himself,  with  Mr.  Slope's  assist- 
ance, to  change  his  courses.  Mr.  Slope  also  did  not  make  out 
a  bad  case  for  himself.  He  explained  how  it  grieved  him  to 
run  counter  to  a  lady  who  had  always  been  his  patroness, 
who  had  befriended  him  in  so  many  ways,  who  had,  in  fact, 
recommended  him  to  the  bishop's  notice ;  but,  as  he  stated, 
his  duty  was  now  imperative ;  he  held  a  situation  of  peculiar 
confidence,  and  was  immediately  and  especially  attached  to 
the  bishop's  person.  In  such  a  situation  his  conscience  re- 
quired that  he  should  regard  solely  the  bishop's  interests,  and 
therefore  he  had  ventured  to  speak  out. 

The  bishop  took  this  for  what  it  was  worth,  and  Mr.  Slope 
only  intended  that  he  should  do  so.    It  gilded  the  pill  which 

242 


MRS.   PROUDIE  WRESTLES   AND   GETS   A   FALL. 

Mr.  Slope  had  to  administer,  and  which  the  bishop  thought 
would  be  less  bitter  than  that  other  pill  which  he  had  been 
so  long  taking. 

"My  lord,"  had  his  immediate  reward,  like  a  good  child.  He 
was  instructed  to  write  and  at  once  did  write  another  note  to 
the  archbishop  accepting  his  grace's  invitation.  This  note  Mr. 
Slope,  more  prudent  than  the  lady,  himself  took  away  and 
posted  with  his  own  hands.  Thus  he  made  sure  that  this  act 
of  self-jurisdiction  should  be  as  nearly  as  possible  a  fait  ac- 
compli. He  begged,  and  coaxed,  and  threatened  the  bishop 
with  a  view  of  making  him  also  write  at  once  to  Mr.  Harding ; 
but  the  bishop,  though  temporarily  emancipated  from  his  wife, 
was  not  yet  enthralled  to  Mr.  Slope.  He  said,  and  probably 
said  truly,  that  such  an  offer  must  be  made  in  some  official 
form ;  that  he  was  not  yet  prepared  to  sign  the  form ;  and 
that  he  should  prefer  seeing  Mr.  Harding  before  he  did  so. 
Mr.  Slope  might,  however,  beg  Mr.  Harding  to  call  upon  him. 
Not  disappointed  with  his  achievement,  Mr.  Slope  went  his 
way.  He  first  posted  the  precious  note  which  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  and  then  pursued  other  enterprises  in  which  we  must 
follow  him  in  other  chapters. 

Mrs.  Proudie,  having  received  such  satisfaction  as  was  to 
be  derived  from  slamming  her  husband's  door,  did  not  at  once 
betake  herself  to  Mrs.  Quiverful.  Indeed  for  the  first  few  mo- 
ments after  her  repulse  she  felt  that  she  could  not  again  see 
that  lady.  She  would  have  to  own  that  she  had  been  beaten, 
to  confess  that  the  diadem  had  passed  from  her  brow,  and  the 
sceptre  from  her  hand !  No,  she  would  send  a  message  to  her 
with  a  promise  of  a  letter  on  the  next  day  or  the  day  after. 
Thus  resolving,  she  betook  herself  to  her  bed-room ;  but  here 
she  again  changed  her  mind.  The  air  of  that  sacred  enclosure 
somewhat  restored  her  courage,  and  gave  her  more  heart.  As 
Achilles  warmed  at  the  sight  of  his  armour,  as  Don  Quixote's 
heart  grew  strong  when  he  grasped  his  lance,  so  did  Mrs. 
Proudie  look  forward  to  fresh  laurels  as  her  eye  fell  on  her 
husband's  pillow.  She  would  not  despair.  Having  so  re- 
solved she  descended  with  dignified  mien  and  refreshed  coun- 
tenance to  Mrs.  Quiverful. 

This  scene  in  the  bishop's  study  took  longer  in  the  acting 
than  in  the  telling.    We  have  not,  perhaps,  had  the  wht)Te  of 

243 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

the  conversation.  At  any  rate  Mrs.  Quiverful  was  begin- 
ning to  be  very  impatient,  and  was  thinking  that  farmer  Sub- 
soil would  be  tired  of  waiting  for  her,  when  Mrs.  Proudie  re- 
turned. Oh !  who  can  tell  the  palpitations  of  that  maternal 
heart,  as  the  suppliant  looked  into  the  face  of  the  great  lady 
to  see  written  there  either  a  promise  of  house,  income,  com- 
fort and  future  competence,  or  else  the  doom  of  continued  and 
ever  increasing  poverty.  Poor  mother !  poor  wife  !  there  was 
little  there  to  comfort  you ! 

"Mrs.  Quiverful,"  thus  spoke  the  lady,  with  considerable 
austerity,  and  without  sitting  down  herself,  "I  find  that  your 
husband  has  behaved  in  this  matter  in  a  very  weak  and  fool- 
ish manner." 

Mrs.  Quiverful  immediately  rose  upon  her  feet,  thinking  it 
disrespectful  to  remain  sitting  while  the  wife  of  the  bishop 
stood.  But  she  was  desired  to  sit  down  again,  and  made  to 
do  so,  so  that  Mrs.  Proudie  might  stand  and  preach  over  her. 
It  is  generally  considered  an  offensive  thing  for  a  gentleman 
to  keep  his  seat  while  another  is  kept  standing  before  him, 
and  we  presume  the  same  law  holds  with  regard  to  ladies. 
It  often  is  so  felt ;  but  we  are  inclined  to  say  that  it  never 
produces  half  the  discomfort  or  half  the  feeling  of  implied  in- 
feriority that  is  shown  by  a  great  man  who  desires  his  visitor 
to  be  seated  while  he  himself  speaks  from  his  legs.  Such  a 
solecism  in  good  breeding,  when  construed  into  English, 
means  this :  "The  accepted  rules  of  courtesy  in  the  world  re- 
quire that  I  should  oiifer  you  a  seat ;  if  I  did  not  do  so,  you 
would  bring  a  charge  against  me  in  the  world  of  being  arro- 
gant and  ill-mannered  ;  I  will  obey  the  world ;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  will  not  put  myself  on  an  equality  with  you.  You  may 
sit  down,  but  I  won't  sit  with  you.  Sit,  therefore,  at  my  bid- 
ding, and  I'll  stand  and  talk  at  you !" 

This  was  just  what  Mrs.  Proudie  meant  to  say,  and  Mrs. 
Quiverful,  though  she  was  too  anxious  and  too  flurried  thus 
to  translate  the  full  meaning  of  the  manoeuvre,  did  not  fail  to 
feel  its  effect.  She  was  cowed  and  uncomfortable,  and  a  sec- 
ond time  essayed  to  rise  from  her  chair. 

"Pray  be  seated,  Mrs.  Quiverful,  pray  keep  your  seat.  Your 
husband,  I  say,  has  been  most  weak  and  most  foolish.  It  is 
impossible,  Mrs.  Quiverful,  to  help  people  who  will  not  help 

244 


MRS.   PROUDIE  WRESTLES   AND   GETS   A   FALL, 
themselves.     I  much  fear  that  I  can  now  do  nothing-  for 

o 

you  in  this  matter." 

"Oh !  Mrs.  Proudie, — don't  say  so,"  said  the  poor  woman 
again  jumping  up. 

''Pray  be  seated,  Mrs.  Quiverful.  I  much  fear  that  I  can 
do  nothing  further  for  you  in  this  matter.  Your  husband 
has,  in  a  most  unaccountable  manner,  taken  upon  himself  to 
resign  that  which  I  was  empowered  to  offer  him.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  the  bishop  expects  that  his  clergy  shall  know 
their  own  minds.  What  he  may  ultimately  do — what  we  may 
finally  decide  on  doing — I  cannot  now  say.  Knowing  the  ex- 
tent of  your  family — " 

"Fourteen  children,  Mrs.  Proudie,  fourteen  of  them !  and 
barely  bread, — barely  bread !  It's  hard  for  the  children  of  a 
clergyman,  it's  hard  for  one  who  has  always  done  his  duty 
respectably !"  Not  a  word  fell  from  her  about  herself ;  but  the 
tears  came  streaming  down  her  big,  coarse  cheeks,  on  which 
the  dust  of  the  August  road  had  left  its  traces. 

Mrs.  Proudie  has  not  been  portrayed  in  these  pages  as  an 
agreeable  or  an  amiable  lady.  There  has  been  no  intention  to 
impress  the  reader  much  in  her  favour.  It  is  ordained  that 
all  novels  should  have  a  male  and  a  female  angel,  and  a  male 
and  a  female  devil.  If  it  be  considered  that  this  rule  is  obeyed 
in  these  pages,  the  latter  character  must  be  supposed  to  have 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  Mrs.  Proudie.  But  she  was  not  all  devil. 
There  was  a  heart  inside  that  stiff-ribbed  bodice,  though  not, 
perhaps,  of  large  dimensions,  and  certainly  not  easily  accessi- 
ble. Mrs.  Quiverful,  however,  did  gain  access,  and  Mrs. 
Proudie  proved  herself  a  woman.  Whether  it  was  the  four- 
teen children  with  their  probable  bare  bread  and  their  possible 
bare  backs  or  the  respectability  of  the  father's  work,  or  the 
mingled  dust  and  tears  on  the  mother's  face,  we  will  not  pre- 
tend to  say.    But  Mrs.  Proudie  was  touched. 

She  did  not  show  it  as  other  women  might  have  done.  She 
did  not  give  Mrs.  Quiverful  eau-de-Cologne,  or  order  her  a 
glass  of  wine.  She  did  not  take  her  to  her  toilet  table,  and 
offer  her  the  use  of  brushes  and  combs,  towels  and  water. 
She  did  not  say  soft  little  speeches  and  coax  her  kindly  back 
to  equanimity.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  despite  her  rough  appear- 
ance, would  have  been  as  amenable  to  such  little  tender  cares 

245 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

as  any  lady  in  the  land.  But  none  such  were  forthcoming. 
Instead  of  this,  Mrs.  Proudie  slapped  one  hand  upon  the  other 
and  declared, — not  with  an  oath ;  for  as  a  lady  and  a  Sab- 
batarian and  a  she-bishop,  she  could  not  swear, — but  with 
an  adjuration,  that  "she  wouldn't  have  it  done." 

The  meaning  of  this  was  tha<-  she  wouldn't  have  Mr. 
Quiverful's  promised  appointment  cozened  away  by  the 
treachery  of  Mr.  Slope  and  the  weakness  of  her  husband. 
This  meaning  she  very  soon  explained  to   Mrs.   Quiverful. 

"Why  was  your  husband  such  a  fool,"  said  she,  now  dis- 
mounted from  her  high  horse,  and  sitting  confidentially  down 
close  to  her  visitor,  "as  to  take  the  bait  which  that  man  threw 
to  him?  If  he  had  not  been  so  utterly  foolish,  nothing  could 
have  prevented  your  going  to  the  hospital." 

Poor  Mrs.  Quiverful  was  ready  enough  with  her  own 
tongue  in  accusing  her  husband  to  his  face  of  being  soft,  and 
perhaps  did  not  always  speak  of  him  to  her  children  quite  so 
respectfully  as  she  might  have  done.  But  she  did  not  at  all 
like  to  hear  him  abused  by  others,  and  began  to  vindicate 
him,  and  to  explain  that  of  course  he  had  taken  Mr.  Slope  to 
be  an  emissary  from  Mrs.  Proudie  herself ;  that  Mr.  Slope 
was  thought  to  be  peculiarly  her  friend ;  and  that,  therefore, 
Mr.  Quiverful  would  have  been  failing  in  respect  to  her  had 
he  assumed  to  doubt  what  Mr.  Slope  had  said. 

Thus  mollified,  Mrs.  Proudie  again  declared  that  "she 
would  not  have  it  done,"  and  at  last  sent  Mrs.  Quiverful  home 
with  an  assurance  that,  to  the  furthest  stretch  of  her  power 
and  influence  in  the  palace,  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Quiverful 
should  be  insisted  on.  As  she  repeated  the  word  "insisted," 
she  thought  of  the  bishop  in  his  night-cap,  and  with  com- 
pressed lips  slightly  shook  her  head.  Oh !  my  aspiring  pas- 
tors, divines  to  whose  ears  nolo  episcopari  are  the  sweetest  of 
words,  which  of  you  would  be  a  bishop  on  such  terms  as 
these? 

Mrs.  Quiverful  got  home  in  the  farmer's  cart,  not  indeed 
with  a  light  heart,  but  satisfied  that  she  had  done  right  in 
making  her  visit. 


246 


A   LOVE    SCENE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A    LOVE    SCENE. 

MR.  SLOPE,  as  we  have  said,  left  the  palace  with  a  feel- 
ing of  considerable  triumph.  Not  that  he  thought  that 
his  difficulties  were  all  over ;  he  did  not  so  deceive  himself ; 
but  he  felt  that  he  had  played  his  first  move  well,  as  well  as 
the  pieces  on  the  board  would  allow ;  and  that  he  had  nothing 
with  which  to  reproach  himself.  He  first  of  all  posted  the  let- 
ter to  the  archbishop,  and  having  made  that  sure  he  pro- 
ceeded to  push  the  advantage  which  he  had  gained.  Had 
Mrs.  Bold  been  at  home,  he  would  have  called  on  her ;  but  he 
knew  that  she  was  at  Plumstead,  so  he  wrote  the  following 
note.  It  was  the  beginning  of  what,  he  trusted,  might  be  a 
long  and  tender  series  of  epistles : 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Bold, — You  will  understand  perfectly  that 
I  cannot  at  present  correspond  with  your  father.  I  heartily 
wish  that  I  could,  and  hope  the  day  may  be  not  long  distant 
when  mists  shall  have  cleared  away,  and  we  may  know  each 
other.  But  I  cannot  preclude  myself  from  the  pleasure  of 
sending  you  these  few  lines  to  say  that  Mr.  O.  has  to-day,  in 
my  presence,  resigned  any  title  that  he  ever  had  to  the  war- 
denship  of  the  hospital,  and  that  the  bishop  has  assured  me 
that  it  is  his  intention  to  offer  it  to  your  esteemed  father. 

"Will  you,  with  my  respectful  compliments,  ask  him,  who 
I  believe  is  now  a  fellow-visitor  with  you,  to  call  on  the  bishop 
either  on  Wednesday  or  Thursday,  between  ten  and  one. 
This  is  by  the  bishop's  desire.  If  you  will  so  far  oblige  me 
as  to  let  me  have  a  line  naming  either  day,  and  the  hour  which 
will  suit  Mr.  Harding,  I  will  take  care  that  the  servants  shall 
have  orders  to  show  him  in  without  delay.  Perhaps  I  should 
say  no  more, — but  still  I  wish  you  could  make  your  father 
understand  that  no  subject  will  be  mooted  between  his  lord- 
ship and  him  which  will  refer  at  all  to  the  method  in  which 
he  may  choose  to  perform  his  duty.  I.  for  one,  am  persuaded 
that  no  clergyman  could  perform  it  more  satisfactorily  than 
he  did.  or  that  he  will  do  again. 

247 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"On  a  former  occasion  I  was  indiscreet  and  much  too  im- 
patient, considering  your  father's  age  and  my  own.  I  hope 
he  will  not  now  refuse  my  apology.  I  still  hope  also  that,  with 
your  aid  and  sweet  pious  labours,  we  may  live  to  attach  such 
a  Sabbath  school  to  the  old  endowment,  as  may,  by  God's 
grace  and  furtherance,  be  a  blessing  to  the  poor  of  this  city. 

"You  will  see  at  once  that  this  letter  is  confidential.  The 
subject,  of  course,  makes  it  so.  But,  equally,  of  course,  it  is 
for  your  parent's  eye  as  well  as  for  your  own,  should  you 
think  proper  to  show  it  to  him. 

'T  hope  my  darling  little  friend  Johnny  is  as  strong  as  ever 
— dear  little  fellow.  Does  he  still  continue  his  rude  assaults 
on  those  beautiful  long  silken  tresses? 

"I  can  assure  you  your  friends  miss  you  from  Barchester 
sorely;  but  it  would  be  cruel  to  begrudge  you  your  sojourn 
among  flowers  and  fields  during  this  truly  sultry  weather. 
"Pray  believe  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bold, 
"Yours  most  sincerely, 

"Obadiah  Slope. 
"Barchester,  Friday." 

Now  this  letter,  taken  as  a  whole,  and  with  the  considera- 
tion that  Mr.  Slope  wished  to  assume  a  great  degree  of  in- 
timacy with  Eleanor,  would  not  have  been  bad  but  for  the  al- 
lusion to  the  tresses.  Gentlemen  do  not  write  to  ladies  about 
their  tresses  unless  they  are  on  very  intimate  terms  indeed. 
But  Mr.  Slope  could  not  be  expected  to  be  aware  of  this.  He 
longed  to  put  a  little  affection  into  his  epistle,  and  yet  he 
thought  it  injudicious,  as  the  letter  would,  he  knew,  be  shown 
to  Mr.  Harding.  He  would  have  insisted  that  the  letter 
should  be  strictly  private  and  seen  by  no  eyes  but  Eleanor's 
own,  had  he  not  felt  that  such  an  injunction  would  have  been 
disobeyed.  He  therefore  restrained  his  passion,  did  not  sign 
himself  "yours  aflfectionately,"  and  contented  himself  instead 
with  the  compliment  to  the  tresses. 

Having  finished  his  letter,  he  took  it  to  Mrs.  Bold's  house, 
and  learning  there,  from  the  servant,  that  things  were  to  be 
sent  out  to  Plumstead  that  afternoon,  left  it,  with  many  in- 
junctions, in  her  hands. 

We  will  now  follow  Mr.  Slope  so  as  to  complete  the  day 

248 


A   LOVE   SCENE. 

with  him,  and  then  return  to  his  letter  and  its  momentous 
fate  in  the  next  chapter. 

There  is  an  old  song  which  gives  us  some  very  good  advice 
about  courting: — 

"It's  gude  to  be  off  with  the  auld  luve 
Before    ye    be    on    wi'    the    new." 

Of  the  wisdom  of  this  maxim  Mr.  Slope  was  ignorant,  and 
accordingly,  having  written  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Bold,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  call  upon  the  Signora  Neroni.  Indeed  it  was  hard 
to  say  which  was  the  old  love  and  which  the  new,  Mr.  Slope 
having  been  smitten  with  both  so  nearly  at  the  same  time. 
Perhaps  he  thought  it  not  amiss  to  have  two  strings  to  his 
bow.  But  two  strings  to  Cupid's  bow  are  always  dangerous 
to  him  on  whose  behalf  they  are  to  be  used.  A  man  should 
remember  that  between  two  stools  he  may  fall  to  the  ground. 

But  in  sooth  Mr.  Slope  was  pursuing  Mrs.  Bold  in  obedi- 
ence to  his  better  instincts,  and  the  signora  in  obedience  to  his 
worser.  Had  he  won  the  widow  and  worn  her,  no  one  could 
have  blamed  him.  You,  O  reader,  and  I,  and  Eleanor's  other 
friends  would  have  received  the  story  of  such  a  winning  with 
much  disgust  and  disappointment ;  but  we  should  have  been 
angry  with  Eleanor,  not  with  Mr.  Slope.  Bishop,  male  and 
female,  dean  and  chapter  and  diocesan  clergy  in  full  congress, 
could  have  found  nothing  to  disapprove  of  in  such  an  alliance. 
Convocation  itself,  that  mysterious  and  mighty  synod,  could 
in  no  wise  have  fallen  foul  of  it.  The  possession  of  looo/.  a 
year  and  a  beautiful  wife  would  not  at  all  have  hurt  the  voice 
of  the  pulpit  charmer,  or  lessened  the  grace  and  piety  of  the 
exemplary  clergyman. 

But  not  of  such  a  nature  were  likely  to  be  his  dealings  with 
the  Signora  Neroni.  In  the  first  place  he  knew  that  her  hus- 
band was  living,  and  therefore  he  could  not  woo  her  hon- 
estly. Then  again  she  had  nothing  to  recommend  her  to  his 
honest  wooing  had  such  been  possible.  She  was  not  only  por- 
tionless, but  also  from  misfortune  unfitted  to  be  chosen  as  the 
■wife  of  any  man  who  wanted  a  useful  mate.  Mr.  Slope  was 
aware  that  she  was  a  helpless,  hopeless  cripple. 

But  Mr.  Slope  could  not  help  himself.  He  knew  that  he 
was  wrong  in  devoting  his  time  to  the  back  drawing-room  in 

249 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Dr.  Stanhope's  house.  He  knew  that  what  took  place  there 
would  if  divulged  utterly  ruin  him  with  Mrs.  Bold.  He 
knew  that  scandal  would  soon  come  upon  his  heels  and  spread 
abroad  among  the  black  coats  of  Barchester  some  tidings,  ex- 
aggerated tidings,  of  the  sighs  which  he  poured  into  the  lady's 
ears.  He  knew  that  he  was  acting  against  the  recognised 
principles  of  his  life,  against  those  laws  of  conduct  by  which 
he  hoped  to  achieve  much  higher  success.  But  as  we  have 
said,  he  could  not  help  himself.  Passion,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  passion  was  too  strong  for  him. 

As  for  the  signora,  no  such  plea  can  be  put  forward  for  her, 
for  in  truth  she  cared  no  more  for  Mr.  Slope  than  she  did  for 
twenty  others  who  had  been  at  her  feet  before  him.  She 
willingly,  nay  greedily,  accepted  his  homage.  He  was  the 
finest  fly  that  Barchester  had  hitherto  afforded  to  her  web ; 
and  the  signora  was  a  powerful  spider  that  made  wondrous 
webs,  and  could  in  no  way  live  without  catching  flies.  Her 
taste  in  this  respect  was  abominable,  for  she  had  no  use  for 
the  victims  when  caught.  She  could  not  eat  them  matri- 
monially, as  young  lady-flies  do  whose  webs  are  most  fre- 
quently of  their  mothers'  weaving.  Nor  could  she  devour 
them  by  any  escapade  of  a  less  legitimate  description.  Her 
unfortunate  affliction  precluded  her  from  all  hope  of  levant- 
ing with  a  lover.  It  would  be  impossible  to  run  away  with 
a  lady  who  required  three  servants  to  move  her  from  a 
sofa. 

The  signora  was  subdued  by  no  passion.  Her  time  for 
love  was  gone.  She  had  lived  out  her  heart,  such  heart  as  she 
had  ever  had,  in  her  early  years,  at  an  age  when  Mr.  Slope 
was  thinking  of  the  second  book  of  Euclid  and  his  unpaid 
bill  at  the  buttery  hatch.  In  age  the  lady  was  younger  than 
the  gentleman ;  but  in  feelings,  in  knowledge  of  the  affairs  of 
love,  in  intrigue,  he  was  immeasurably  her  junior.  It  was 
necessary  to  her  to  have  some  man  at  her  feet.  It  was  the 
one  customary  excitement  of  her  life.  She  delighted  in  the 
exercise  of  power  which  this  gave  her ;  it  was  now  nearly  the 
only  food  for  her  ambition ;  she  would  boast  to  her  sister  that 
she  could  make  a  fool  of  any  man,  and  the  sister,  as  little  im- 
bued with  feminine  delicacy  as  herself,  good  naturedly 
thought  it  but  fair  that  such  amusement  should  be  afforded  to 

250 


A   LOVE    SCENE. 

a  poor  invalid  who  was  debarred  from  the  ordinary  pleasures 
of  life. 

Mr,  Slope  was  madly  in  love,  but  hardly  knew  it.  The 
signora  spitted  him,  as  a  boy  does  a  cockchafer  on  a  cork,  that 
she  might  enjoy  the  energetic  agony  of  his  gyrations.  And 
she  knew  very  well  what  she  was  doing. 

Mr.  Slope  having  added  to  his  person  all  such  adornments 
as  are  possible  to  a  clergyman  making  a  morning  visit,  such 
as  a  clean  neck  tie,  clean  handkerchief,  new  gloves,  and  a 
soupgon  of  not  unnecessary  scent,  called  about  three  o'clock 
at  the  doctor's  door.  At  about  this  hour  the  signora  was  al- 
most always  alone  in  the  back  drawing-room.  The  mother 
had  not  come  down.  The  doctor  was  out  or  in  his  own  room. 
Bertie  was  out,  and  Charlotte  at  any  rate  left  the  room  if  any 
one  called  whose  object  was  specially  with  her  sister.  Such 
was  her  idea  of  being  charitable  and  sisterly. 

Mr.  Slope,  as  was  his  custom,  asked  for  Mr.  Stanhope,  and 
was  told,  as  was  the  servant's  custom,  that  the  signora  was  in 
the  drawing-room.  Upstairs  he  accordingly  went.  He  found 
her,  as  he  always  did,  lying  on  her  sofa  with  a  French  volume 
before  her,  and  a  beautiful  inlaid  writing  case  open  on  her 
table.  At  the  moment  of  his  entrance  she  was  in  the  act  of 
writing. 

"Ah  my  friend,"  said  she,  putting  out  her  left  hand  to  him 
across  her  desk,  "I  did  not  expect  you  to-day  and  was  this 
very  instant  writing  to  you " 

Mr.  Slope,  taking  the  soft  fair  delicate  hand  in  his,  and 
very  soft  and  fair  and  delicate  it  was,  bowed  over  it  his  huge 
red  head  and  kissed  it.  It  was  a  sight  to  see,  a  deed  to  record 
if  the  author  could  fitly  do  it,  a  picture  to  put  on  canvas.  Mr. 
Slope  was  big,  awkward,  cumbrous,  and  having  his  heart  in 
his  pursuit  was  ill  at  ease.  The  lady  was  fair,  as  we  have 
said,  and  delicate ;  every  thing  about  her  was  fine  and  re- 
fined ;  her  hand  in  his  looked  like  a  rose  lying  among  carrots, 
and  when  he  kissed  it  he  looked  as  a  cow  might  do  on  finding 
such  a  flower  among  her  food.  She  was  graceful  as  a  couch- 
ant  goddess,  and,  moreover,  as  self-possessed  as  Venus 
must  have  been  when  courting  Adonis. 

Oh,  that  such  grace  and  such  beauty  should  have  con- 
descended to  waste  itself  on  such  a  pursuit ! 

251 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"I  was  in  the  act  of  writing  to  you,"  said  she,  "but  now 
my  scrawl  may  go  into  the  basket ;"  and  she  raised  her  sheet 
of  gilded  note  paper  from  off  her  desk  as  though  to  tear  it. 

"Indeed  it  shall  not,"  said  he,  laying  the  embargo  of  half  a 
stone  weight  of  human  flesh  and  blood  upon  the  devoted 
paper.  "Nothing  that  you  write  for  my  eyes,  signora,  shall 
be  so  desecrated,"  and  he  took  up  the  letter,  put  that  also 
among  the  carrots  and  fed  on  it,  and  then  proceeded  to 
read  it. 

"Gracious  me!  Mr.  Slope,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you  don't 
mean  to  say  that  you  keep  all  the  trash  I  write  you.  Half  my 
time  I  don't  know  what  I  write,  and  when  I  do,  I  know  it  is 
only  fit  for  the  back  of  the  fire.  I  hope  you  have  not  that  ugly 
trick  of  keeping  letters." 

"At  any  rate,  I  don't  throw  them  into  a  waste-paper  basket. 
If  destruction  is  their  doomed  lot,  they  perish  worthily,  and 
are  burnt  on  a  pyre,  as  Dido  was  of  old." 

"With  a  steel  pen  stuck  through  them,  of  course,"  said 
she,  "to  make  the  simile  more  complete.  Of  all  the  ladies  of  my 
acquaintance  I  think  Lady  Dido  was  the  most  absurd.  Why 
did  she  not  do  as  Cleopatra  did?  Why  did  she  not  take  out 
her  ships  and  insist  on  going  with  him?  She  could  not  bear 
to  lose  the  land  she  had  got  by  a  swindle ;  and  then  she  could 
not  bear  the  loss  of  her  lover.  So  she  fell  between  two  stools. 
Mr.  Slope,  whatever  you  do,  never  mingle  love  and  business." 

Mr.  Slope  blushed  up  to  his  eyes,  and  over  his  mottled  fore- 
head to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair.  He  felt  sure  that  the  sig- 
nora knew  all  about  his  intentions  with  reference  to  Mrs. 
Bold.  His  conscience  told  him  that  he  was  detected.  His 
doom  was  to  be  spoken ;  he  was  to  be  punished  for  his  du- 
plicity, and  rejected  by  the  beautiful  creature  before  him. 
Poor  man !  He  little  dreamt  that  had  all  his  intentions  with 
reference  to  Mrs.  Bold  been  known  to  the  signora,  it  would 
only  have  added  zest  to  that  lady's  amusement.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  have  Mr.  Slope  at  her  feet,  to  show  her  power 
by  making  an  utter  fool  of  a  clergyman,  to  gratify  her  own 
infidelity  by  thus  proving  the  little  strength  which  religion 
had  in  controlling  the  passions  even  of  a  religious  man ;  but 
it  would  be  an  increased  gratification  if  she  could  be  made 
to  understand  that  she  was  at  the  same  time  alluring  her 

252 


*'lt  was  a  sight  to  see,  a  deed  to  record" 


A   LOVE    SCENE. 

victim  away  from  another  whose  love  if  secured  would  be  in 
every  way  beneficent  and  salutary. 

The  signora  had  indeed  discovered  with  the  keen  instinct 
of  such  a  woman  that  Mr.  Slope  was  bent  on  matrimony 
with  Mrs.  Bold,  but  in  alluding  to  Dido  she  had  not  thought 
of  it.  She  instantly  perceived,  however,  from  her  lover's 
blushes,  what  was  on  his  mind,  and  was  not  slow  in  taking 
advantage  of  it. 

She  looked  him  full  in  face,  not  angrily,  nor  yet  with  a 
smile,  but  with  an  intense  and  overpowering  gaze ;  and  then, 
holding  up  her  forefinger  and  slightly  shaking  her  head,  she 
said : — 

"Whatever  you  do,  my  friend,  do  not  mingle  love  and  busi- 
ness. Either  stick  to  your  treasure  and  your  city  of  wealth, 
or  else  follow  your  love  like  a  true  man.  But  never  attempt 
both.  If  you  do,  you'll  have  to  die  with  a  broken  heart  as  did 
poor  Dido.  Which  is  it  to  be  with  you,  Mr.  Slope,  love  or 
money? 

Mr.  Slope  was  not  so  ready  with  a  pathetic  answer  as  he 
usually  was  with  touching  episodes  in  his  extempore  sermons. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  to  say  something  pretty,  something  also 
that  should  remove  the  impression  on  the  mind  of  his  lady 
love.    But  he  was  rather  put  about  how  to  do  it. 

"Love,"  said  he,  "true  overpowering  love,  must  be  the 
strongest  passion  a  man  can  feel ;  it  must  control  every  other 
wish,  and  put  aside  every  other  pursuit.  But  with  me  love  will 
never  act  in  that  way  unless  it  be  returned ;"  and  he  threw 
upon  the  signora  a  look  of  tenderness  which  was  intended  to 
make  up  for  all  the  deficiencies  of  his  speech. 

"Take  my  advice,"  said  she.  "Never  mind  love.  After  all, 
what  is  it?  The  dream  of  a  few  weeks.  That  is  all  its  joy. 
The  disappointment  of  a  life  is  its  Nemesis.  Who  was  ever 
successful  in  true  love?  Success  in  love  argues  that  the  love 
is  false.  True  love  is  always  despondent  or  tragical.  Juliet 
loved,  Haidee  loved,  Dido  loved,  and  what  came  of  it?  Troi- 
lus  loved  and  ceased  to  be  a  man." 

"Troilus  loved  and  was  fooled,"  said  the  more  manly  chap- 
lain. "A  man  may  love  and  yet  not  be  a  Troilus.  All  women 
are  not  Cressids." 

"No ;  all  women  are  not  Cressids.    The  falsehood  is  not  al- 

253 


^ARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ways  on  the  woman's  side.  Imogen  was  true,  but  how  was 
she  rewarded?  Her  lord  beheved  her  to  be  the  paramour  of 
the  first  he  who  came  near  her  in  his  absence.  Desdemona 
was  true  and  was  smothered.  OpheHa  was  true  and  went  mad. 
There  is  no  happiness  in  love,  except  at  the  end  of  an  English 
novel.  But  in  wealth,  money,  houses,  lands,  goods  and  chattels, 
in  the  good  things  of  this  world,  yes,  in  them  there  is  some- 
thing tangible,  something  that  can  be  retained  and  enjoyed." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  feeling  himself  bound  to  enter 
some  protest  against  so  very  unorthodox  a  doctrine,  "this 
world's  wealth  will  make  no  one  happy." 

"And  what  will  make  you  happy — you — you?"  said  she, 
raising  herself,  and  speaking  to  him  with  energy  across  the 
table.  "From  what  source  do  you  look  for  happiness?  Do 
not  say  that  you  look  for  none?  I  shall  not  believe  you.  It 
is  a  search  in  which  every  human  being  spends  an  existence." 

"And  the  search  is  always  in  vain,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "We 
look  for  happiness  on  earth,  while  we  ought  to  be  content  to 
hope  for  it  in  heaven." 

"Pshaw !  you  preach  a  doctrine  which  you  know  you  don't 
believe.  It  is  the  way  with  you  all.  If  you  know  that  there  is 
no  earthly  happiness,  why  do  you  long  to  be  a  bishop  or  a 
dean?    Why  do  you  want  lands  and  income?" 

"I  have  the  natural  ambition  of  a  man,"  said  he. 

"Of  course  you  have,  and  the  natural  passions ;  and  there- 
fore I  say  that  you  don't  believe  the  doctrine  you  preach.  St. 
Paul  was  an  enthusiast.  He  believed  so  that  his  ambition  and 
passions  did  not  war  against  his  creed.  So  does  the  Eastern 
fanatic  who  passes  half  his  life  erect  upon  a  pillar.  As  for  me, 
I  will  believe  in  no  belief  that  does  not  make  itself  manifest  by 
outward  signs.  I  will  think  no  preaching  sincere  that  is  not 
recommended  by  the  practice  of  the  preacher." 

Mr.  Slope  was  startled  and  horrified,  but  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  answer.  How  could  he  stand  up  and  preach  the  les- 
sons of  his  Master,  being  there,  as  he  was,  on  the  devil's  busi- 
ness ?  He  was  a  true  believer,  otherwise  this  would  have  been 
nothing  to .  him.  He  had  audacity  for  most  things  but  he 
had  not  audacity  to  make  a  plaything  of  the  Lord's  word.  All 
this  the  signora  understood,  and  felt  much  interest  as  she  saw 
her  cockchafer  whirl  round  upon  her  pin. 

2S4 


A    LOVE    SCENE. 

"Your  wit  delights  in  such  arguments,"  said  he,  "but  your 
heart  and  your  reason  do  not  go  along  with  them." 

"My  heart,"  said  she;  "you  quite  mistake  the  principles  of 
my  composition  if  you  imagine  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
about  me."  After  all,  there  was  very  little  that  was  false  in 
anything  that  the  signora  said.  If  Mr.  Slope  allowed  him- 
self to  be  deceived  it  was  his  own  fault.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  open  than  her  declarations  about  herself. 

The  little  writing  table  with  her  desk  was  still  standing 
before  her,  a  barrier,  as  it  were,  against  the  enemy.  She 
was  sitting  as  nearly  upright  as  she  ever  did,  and  he  had 
brought  a  chair  close  to  the  sofa,  so  that  there  was  only  the 
corner  of  the  table  between  him  and  her.  It  so  happened 
that  as  she  spoke  her  hand  lay  upon  the  table,  and  as  Mr. 
Slope  answered  her  he  put  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"No  heart !"  said  he.  "That  is  a  heavy  charge  which  you 
bring  against  yourself,  and  one  of  which  I  cannot  find  you 
guilty " 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  not  quickly  and  angrily,  as  though 
insulted  by  his  touch,  but  gently  and  slowly. 

"You  are  in  no  condition  to  give  a  verdict  on  the  matter," 
said  she,  "as  you  have  not  tried  me.  No ;  don't  say  that  you 
intend  doing  so,  for  you  know  you  have  no  intention  of  the 
kind ;  nor  indeed  have  I  either.  As  for  you,  you  will  take 
your  vows  where  they  will  result  in  something  more  sub- 
stantial than  the  pursuit  of  such  a  ghostlike,  ghastly  love 
as  mine " 

"Your  love  should  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  dream  of  a 
monarch,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  not  quite  clear  as  to  the  meaning 
of  his  words. 

"Say  an  archbishop,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  she.  Poor  fellow ! 
she  was  very  cruel  to  him.  He  went  round  again  upon  his 
cork  on  this  allusion  to  his  profession.  He  tried,  however, 
to  smile,  and  gently  accused  her  of  joking  on  a  matter,  which 
was,  he  said,  to  him  of  such  vital  moment. 

"Why — what  gulls  do  you  men  make  of  us,"  she  replied. 
"How  you  fool  us  to  the  top  of  our  bent ;  and  of  all  men  you 
clergymen  are  the  most  fluent  of  your  honeyed  caressing 
words.  Now  look  me  in  the  face,  Mr.  Slope,  boldly  and 
openly." 

255 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Slope  did  look  at  her  with  a  languishing  loving  eye, 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  again  put  forth  his  hand  to  get  hold 
of  hers. 

"I  told  you  to  look  at  me  boldly,  Mr.  Slope;  but  confine 
your  boldness  to  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  Madeline!"  he  sighed. 

"Well,  my  name  is  Madeline,"  said  she ;  "but  none  except 
my  own  family  usually  call  me  so.  Now  look  me  in  the  face, 
Mr.  Slope.    Am  I  to  understand  that  you  say  you  love  me?" 

Mr.  Slope  never  had  said  so.  If  he  had  come  there  with 
any  formed  plan  at  all,  his  intention  was  to  make  love  to  the 
lady  without  uttering  any  such  declaration.  It  was,  however, 
quite  impossible  that  he  should  now  deny  his  love.  He  had, 
therefore,  nothing  for  it,  but  to  go  down  on  his  knees  dis- 
tractedly against  the  sofa,  and  swear  that  he  did  love  her 
with  a  love  passing  the  love  of  man. 

The  signora  received  the  assurance  with  very  little  palpi- 
tation or  appearance  of  surprise.  "And  now  answer  me  an- 
other question,"  said  she ;  "when  are  you  to  be  married  to  my 
dear  friend  Eleanor  Bold?" 

Poor  Mr.  Slope  went  round  and  round  in  mortal  agony. 
In  such  a  condition  as  his  it  was  really  very  hard  for  him  to 
know  what  answer  to  give.  And  yet  no  answer  would  be  his 
surest  condemnation.  He  might  as  well  at  once  plead  guilty 
to  the  charge  brought  against  him. 

"And  why  do  you  accuse  me  of  such  dissimulation?"  said  he. 

"Dissimulation !  I  said  nothing  of  dissimulation.  I  made 
no  charge  against  you,  and  make  none.  Pray  don't  defend 
yourself  to  me.  You  swear  that  you  are  devoted  to  my 
beauty,  and  yet  you  are  on  the  eve  of  matrimony  with  an- 
other. I  feel  this  to  be  rather  a  compliment.  It  is  to  Mrs. 
Bold  that  you  must  defend  yourself.  That  you  may  find 
difficult ;  unless,  indeed,  you  can  keep  her  in  the  dark.  You 
clergymen  are  cleverer  than  other  men." 

"Signora,  I  have  told  you  that  I  loved  you,  and  now  you 
rail  at  me?" 

"Rail  at  you.  God  bless  the  man ;  what  would  he  have  ? 
Come,  answer  me  this  at  your  leisure, — not  without  thinking 
now,  but  leisurely  and  with  consideration, — Are  you  not  go- 
ing to  be  married  to  Mrs.  Bold?" 

256 


A    LOVE    SCENE. 

"I  am  not,"  said  he.  And  as  he  said  it,  he  almost  hated, 
with  an  exquisite  hatred,  the  woman  whom  he  could  not 
help  loving-  with  an  exquisite  love. 

"But  surely  you  are  a  worshipper  of  hers?" 

"I  am  not,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  to  whom  the  word  worshipper 
was  peculiarly  distasteful.  The  signora  had  conceived  that 
it  would  be  so. 

"I  wonder  at  that,"  said  she.  "Do  you  not  admire  her? 
To  my  eye  she  is  the  perfection  of  English  beauty.  And  then 
she  is  rich  too.  I  should  have  thought  she  was  just  the  per- 
son to  attract  you.  Come,  Mr.  Slope,  let  me  give  you  ad- 
vice on  this  matter.  Marry  the  charming  widow ;  she  will 
be  a  good  mother  to  your  children,  and  an  excellent  mistress 
of  a  clergyman's  household." 

"Oh,  signora,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel?" 

"Cruel,"  said  she,  changing  the  voice  of  banter  which 
she  had  been  using  for  one  which  was  expressively  earnest 
in  its  tone;  "is  that  cruelty?" 

"How  can  I  love  another,  while  my  heart  is  entirely  your 
own?" 

"If  that  were  cruelty,  Mr.  Slope,  what  might  you  say  of 
me  if  I  were  to  declare  that  I  returned  your  passion  ?  What 
would  you  think  if  I  bound  you  even  by  a  lover's  oath  to  do 
daily  penance  at  this  couch  of  mine?  What  can  I  give  in 
return  for  a  man's  love?  Ah,  dear  friend,  you  have  not 
realised  the  conditions  of  my  fate." 

Mr.  Slope  was  not  on  his  knees  all  this  time.  After  his 
declaration  of  love  he  had  risen  from  them  as  quickly  as  he 
thought  consistent  with  the  new  position  which  he  now  filled, 
and  as  he  stood  was  leaning  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  This 
outburst  of  tenderness  on  the  signora's  part  quite  overcame 
him,  and  made  him  feel  for  the  moment  that  he  could  sacri- 
fice everything  to  be  assured  of  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
creature  before  him,  maimed,  lame,  and  already  married  as 
she  was. 

"And  can  I  not  sympathise  with  your  lot?"  said  he.  now 
seating  himself  on  her  sofa,  and  pushing  away  the  table  with 
his  foot. 

"Sympathy  is  so  near  to  pity!"  said  she.  "If  you  pity  me, 
cripple  as  I  am,  I  shall  spurn  you  from  me." 

IT  257 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Oh,  Madeline,  I  will  only  love  you,"  and  again  he  caught 
her  hand  and  devoured  it  with  kisses.  Now  she  did  not 
draw  it  from  him,  but  sat  there  as  he  kissed  it,  looking  at 
him  with  her  great  eyes,  just  as  a  great  spider  would  look 
at  a  great  fly  that  was  quite  securely  caught. 

"Suppose  Signor  Neroni  were  to  come  to  Barchester," 
said  she,  "would  you  make  his  acquaintance?" 

"Signor  Neroni !"  said  he, 

"Would  you  introduce  him  to  the  bishop,  and  Mrs. 
Proudie,  and  the  )^oung  ladies?"  said  she,  again  having  re- 
course to  that  horrid  quizzing  voice  which  Mr.  Slope  so 
particularly  hated. 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  question  ?"  said  he, 

"Because  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  know  that  there 
is  a  Signor  Neroni.     I  think  you  had  forgotten  it." 

"If  I  thought  that  you  retained  for  that  wretch  one  par- 
ticle of  the  love  of  which  he  was  never  worthy,  I  would  die 
before  I  would  distract  you  by  telling  you  what  I  feel.  No ! 
were  your  husband  the  master  of  your  heart,  I  might  per- 
haps love  you ;  but  you  should  never  know  it," 

"My  heart  again !  how  you  talk.  And  you  consider  then, 
that  if  a  husband  be  not  master  of  his  wife's  heart,  he  has 
no  right  to  her  fealty;  if  a  wife  ceases  to  love,  she  may  cease 
to  be  true.  Is  that  your  doctrine  on  this  matter,  as  a  minis- 
ter of  the  Church  of  England?" 

Mr.  Slope  tried  hard  within  himself  to  cast  off  the  pollu- 
tion with  which  he  felt  that  he  was  defiling  his  soul.  He 
strove  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  noxious  siren  that  had 
bewitched  him.  But  he  could  not  do  it.  He  could  not  be 
again  heart  free.  He  had  looked  for  rapturous  joy  in  lov- 
ing this  lovely  creature,  and  he  already  found  that  he  met 
with  little  but  disappointment  and  self-rebuke.  He  had  come 
across  the  fruit  of  the  Dead  Sea,  so  sweet  and  delicious  to 
the  eye,  so  bitter  and  nauseous  to  the  taste.  He  had  put 
the  apple  to  his  mouth,  and  it  had  turned  to  ashes  between 
his  teeth.  Yet  he  could  not  tear  himself  away.  He  knew, 
he  could  not  but  know,  that  she  jeered  at  him,  ridiculed  his 
love,  and  insulted  the  weakness  of  his  relifrion.  But  she  half 
permitted  his  adoration,  and  that  half  permission  added  such 
fuel  to  his  fire  that  all  the  fountain  of  his  piety  could  not 

258 


A   LOVE    SCENE. 

quench  it.  He  began  to  feel  savage,  irritated,  and  revenge- 
ful. He  meditated  some  severity  of  speech,  some  taunt  that 
should  cut  her,  as  her  taunts  cut  him.  He  reflected  as  he 
stood  there  for  a  moment,  silent  before  her,  that  if  he  de- 
sired to  quell  her  proud  spirit,  he  should  do  so  by  being 
prouder  even  than  herself;  that  if  he  wished  to  have  her  at 
his  feet  suppliant  for  his  love  it  behoved  him  to  conquer  her 
by  indifference.  All  this  passed  through  his  mind.  As  far 
as  dead  knowledge  went,  he  knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  how 
a  woman  should  be  tamed.  But  when  he  essayed  to  bring 
his  tactics  to  bear  he  failed  like  a  child.  What  chance  has 
dead  knowledge  with  experience  in  any  of  the  transactions 
between  man  and  man?  What  possible  chance  between  man 
and  woman?  Mr.  Slope  loved  furiously,  insanely,  and 
truly;  but  he  had  never  played  the  game  of  love.  The 
signora  did  not  love  at  all,  but  she  was  up  to  every  move 
of  the  board.  It  was  Philidor  pitted  against  a  school- 
boy. 

And  so  she  continued  to  insult  him,  and  he  continued  to 
bear  it. 

"Sacrifice  the  world  for  love !"  said  she,  in  answer  to  some 
renewed  vapid  declaration  of  his  passion ;  "how  often  has 
the  same  thing  been  said,  and  how  invariablv  with  the  same 
falsehood !" 

"Falsehood,"  said  he.  "Do  you  say  that  I  am  false  to 
you?  do  you  say  that  my  love  is  not  real?" 

"False?  of  course  it  is  false,  false  as  the  father  of  false- 
hood— if  indeed  falsehoods  need  a  sire  and  are  not  self- 
begotten  since  the  world  began.  You  are  ready  to  sacrifice 
the  world  for  love  ?  Come,  let  us  see  what  you  will  sacrifice. 
I  care  nothing  for  nuptial  vows.  The  wretch,  I  think  you 
were  kind  enough  to  call  him  so,  whom  I  swore  to  love  and 
obey,  is  so  base  that  he  can  only  be  thought  of  with  repul- 
sive disgust.  In  the  council  chamber  of  my  heart  I  have  di- 
vorced him.  To  me  that  is  as  good  as  though  aged  lords 
had  gloated  for  months  over  the  details  of  his  licentious  life. 
I  care  nothing  for  what  the  world  can  say.  Will  you  be  as 
frank  ?  Will  you  take  me  to  your  home  as  your  wife  ?  Will 
you  call  me  Mrs.  Slope  before  bishop,  dean,  and  preben- 
daries?"    The  poor  tortured  wretch  stood  silent,  not  know- 

259 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ing  what  to  say.  "What !  you  won't  do  that.  Tell  me,  then, 
what  part  of  the  world  is  it  that  you  will  sacrifice  for  my 
charms  ?" 

"Were  you  free  to  marry,  I  would  take  you  to  my  house 
to-morrow  and  wish  no  higher  privilege." 

"I  am  free,"  said  she,  almost  starting  up  in  her  energy. 
For  though  there  was  no  truth  in  her  pretended  regard  for 
her  clerical  admirer,  there  was  a  mixture  of  real  feeling  in 
the  scorn  and  satire  with  which  she  spoke  of  love  and  mar- 
riage generally.  "I  am  free ;  free  as  the  winds.  Come ;  will 
you  take  me  as  I  am  ?  Have  your  wish ;  sacrifice  the  world, 
and  prove  yourself  a  true  man." 

Mr.  Slope  should  have  taken  her  at  her  word.  She  would 
have  drawn  back,  and  he  would  have  had  the  full  advantage 
of  the  offer.  But  he  did  not.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he  stood 
wrapt  in  astonishment,  passing  his  fingers  through  his  lank 
red  hair,  and  thinking  as  he  stared  upon  her  animated  counte- 
nance that  her  wondrous  beauty  grew  more  and  more  won- 
derful as  he  gazed  on  it.  "Ha !  ha !  ha !"  she  laughed  out 
loud.  "Come,  Mr.  Slope ;  don't  talk  of  sacrificing  the  world 
again.  People  beyond  one-and-twenty  should  never  dream 
of  such  a  thing.  You  and  I,  if  we  have  the  dregs  of  any 
love  left  in  us,  if  we  have  the  remnants  of  a  passion  remain- 
ing in  our  hearts,  should  husband  our  resources  better.  We 
are  not  in  our  premiere  jeitnesse.  The  world  is  a  very  nice 
place.  Your  world,  at  any  rate,  is  so.  You  have  all  manner 
of  fat  rectories  to  get,  and  possible  bishoprics  to  enjoy. 
Come,  confess;  on  second  thoughts  you  would  not  sacrifice 
such  things  for  the  smiles  of  a  lame  lady?" 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  answer  this.  In  order  to  be 
in  any  way  dignified,  he  felt  that  he  must  be  silent. 

"Come,"  said  she — "don't  boody  with  me :  don't  be  angry 
because  I  speak  out  some  home  truths.  Alas,  the  world,  as 
I  have  found  it,  has  taught  me  bitter  truths.  Come,  tell  me 
that  I  am  forgiven.  Are  we  not  to  be  friends?"  and  she 
again  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

He  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair  beside  her,  and  took  her 
proffered  hand  and  leant  over  her. 

"There,"  said  she,  with  her  sweetest,  softest  smile — a  smile 
to  withstand  which  a  man  should  be  cased  in  triple  steel, 

260 


MRS.    BOLD   AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

"there;  seal  your  forgiveness  on  it,"  and  she  raised  it  towards 
his  face.  He  kissed  it  again  and  again,  and  stretched  over 
her  as  though  desirous  of  extending  the  charity  of  his  par- 
don beyond  the  hand  that  was  offered  to  him.  She  managed, 
however,  to  check  his  ardour.  For  one  so  easily  allured  as 
this  poor  chaplain,  her  hand  was  surely  enough. 

"Oh,  Madeline!"  said  he,  "tell  me  that  you  love  me — do 
you — do  you  love  me  ?" 

"Hush,"  said  she.  "There  is  my  mother's  step.  Our 
tete-d-tete  has  been  of  monstrous  length.  Now  you  had  bet- 
ter go.     But  we  shall  see  you  soon  again,  shall  we  not  ?" 

Mr.  Slope  promised  that  he  would  call  again  on  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

"And,  Mr.  Slope,"  she  continued,  "pray  answer  my  note. 
You  have  it  in  your  hand,  though  I  declare  during  these  two 
hours  you  have  not  been  gracious  enough  to  read  it.  It  is 
about  the  Sabbath  school  and  the  children.  You  know  how 
anxious  I  am  to  have  them  here.  I  have  been  learning  the 
catechism  myself,  on  purpose.  You  must  manage  it  for  me 
next  week.  I  will  teach  them,  at  any  rate,  to  submit  them- 
selves to  their  spiritual  pastors  and  masters." 

Mr.  Slope  said  but  little  on  the  subject  of  Sabbath  schools, 
but  he  made  his  adieu,  and  took  -himself  home  with  a  sad 
heart,  troubled  mind,  and  uneasy  conscience. 


CHAPTER   XXVni. 

MRS.   BOLD   IS   ENTERTAINED  BY  DR.    AND   MRS.    GRANTLY 
AT     PLUMSTEAD. 

IT  will  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Slope,  when  leaving  his 
billet  doux  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bold,  had  been  informed 
that  it  would  be  sent  out  to  her  at  Plumstead  that  afternoon. 
The  archdeacon  and  Mr.  Harding  had  in  fact  come  into  town 
together  in  the  brougham,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that  they 
should  call  for  Eleanor's  parcels  as  they  left  on  their  way 
home.  Accordingly  they  did  so  call,  and  the  maid,  as  she 
handed  to  the  coachman  a  small  basket  and  large  bundle 
carefully  and  neatly  packed,  gave  in  at  the  carriage  window 

261 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Slope's  epistle.  The  archdeacon,  who  was  sitting  next 
to  the  window,  took  it,  and  immediately  recognised  the  hand- 
writing of  his  enemy. 

"Who  left  this  ?"  said  he. 

"Mr.  Slope  called  with  it  himself,  your  reverence,"  said 
the  girl ;  "and  was  very  anxious  that  missus  should  have  it 
to-day." 

So  the  brougham  drove  ofif,  and  the  letter  was  left  in  the 
archdeacon's  hand.  He  looked  at  it  as  though  he  held  a 
basket  of  adders.  He  could  not  have  thought  worse  of  the 
document  had  he  read  it  and  discovered  it  to  be  licentious 
and  atheistical.  He  did,  moreover,  what  so  many  wise  peo- 
ple are  accustomed  to  do  in  similar  circumstances ;  he  imme- 
diately condemned  the  person  to  whom  the  letter  was  written, 
as  though  she  were  necessarily  a  particeps  criminis. 

Poor  Mr.  Harding,  though  by  no  means  inclined  to  for- 
ward Mr.  Slope's  intimacy  with  his  daughter,  would  have 
given  anything  to  have  kept  the  letter  from  his  son-in-law. 
But  that  was  now  impossible.  There  it  was  in  his  hand ; 
and  he  looked  as  thoroughly  disgusted  as  though  he  were 
quite  sure  that  it  contained  all  the  rhapsodies  of  a  favoured 
lover. 

."It's  very  hard  on  me,"  said  he,  after  awhile,  "that  this 
should  go  on  under  my  roof." 

Now  here  the  archdeacon  was  certainly  most  unreason- 
able. Having  invited  his  sister-in-law  to  his  house,  it  was 
a  natural  consequence  that  she  should  receive  her  letters 
there.  And  if  Mr.  Slope  chose  to  write  to  her,  his  letter 
would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  be  sent  after  her.  Moreover, 
the  very  fact  of  an  invitation  to  one's  house  implies  confi- 
dence on  the  part  of  the  inviter.  He  had  shown  that  he 
thought  Mrs.  Bold  to  be  a  fit  person  to  stay  with  him  by  his 
asking  her  to  do  so,  and  it  was  most  cruel  to  her  that  he 
should  complain  of  her  violating  the  sanctity  of  his  roof-tree, 
when  the  laches  committed  were  none  of  her  commit- 
ting. 

Mr.  Harding  felt  this ;  and  felt  also  that  when  the  arch- 
deacon talked  thus  about  his  roof,  what  he  said  was  most 
oiTensive  to  himself  as  Eleanor's  father.  If  Eleanor  did  re- 
ceive a  letter  from  Mr.  Slope  what  was  there  in  that  to  pol- 

262 


MRS.    BOLD   AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

lute  the  purity  of  Dr.  Grantly's  household?  He  was  indig- 
nant that  his  daughter  should  be  so  judged  and  so  spoken 
of;  and  he  made  up  his  mind  that  even  as  Mrs.  Slope  she 
must  be  dearer  to  him  than  any  other  creature  on  God's 
earth.  He  almost  spoke  out,  and  said  as  much ;  but  for  the 
moment  he  restrained  himself. 

"Here,"  said  the  archdeacon,  handing  the  offensive  missive 
to  his  father-in-law ;  "I  am  not  going  to  be  the  bearer  of  his 
love  letters.  You  are  her  father,  and  may  do  as  you  think 
fit  with  it." 

By  doing  as  he  thought  fit  with  it,  the  archdeacon  certainly 
meant  that  Mr.  Harding  would  be  justified  in  opening  and 
reading  the  letter,  and  taking  any  steps  which  might  in  con- 
sequence be  necessary.  To  tell  the  truth,  Dr.  Grantly  did 
feel  rather  a  stronger  curiosity  than  was  justified  by  his 
outraged  virtue,  to  see  the  contents  of  the  letter.  Of  course 
he  could  not  open  it  himself,  but  he  wished  to  make  Mr. 
Harding  understand  that  he,  as  Eleanor's  father,  would  be 
fully  justified  in  doing  so.  The  idea  of  such  a  proceeding 
never  occurred  to  Mr.  Harding.  His  authority  over  Eleanor 
ceased  when  she  became  the  wife  of  John  Bold.  He  had 
not  the  slightest  wish  to  pry  into  her  correspondence.  He 
consequently  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  only  wished 
that  he  had  been  able  to  do  so  without  the  archdeacon's 
knowledge.  They  both  sat  silent  during  half  the  journey 
home,  and  then  Dr.  Grantly  said,  "Perhaps  Susan  had  better 
give  it  to  her.  She  can  explain  to  her  sister  better  than 
either  you  or  I  can  do,  how  deep  is  the  disgrace  of  such  an 
acquaintance," 

"I  think  you  are  very  hard  upon  Eleanor,"  replied  Mr. 
Harding.  "I  will  not  allow  that  she  has  disgraced  herself, 
nor  do  I  think  it  likely  that  she  will  do  so.  She  has  a  right 
to  correspond  with  whom  she  pleases,  and  I  shall  not  take 
upon  myself  to  blame  her  because  she  gets  a  letter  from 
Slope." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dr.  Grantly,  "you  don't  wish  her  to 
marry  the  man.  I  suppose  you'll  admit  that  she  would  dis- 
grace herself  if  she  did  do  so." 

"I  do  not  wish  her  to  marry  him,"  said  the  perplexed  fa- 
ther ;  "I  do  not  like  him,  and  do  not  think  he  would  make  a 

263 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

good  husband.     But  if  Eleanor  chooses  to  do  so,  I  shall  cer- 
tainly not  think  that  she  disgraces  herself." 

"Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  Dr.  Grantly,  and  threw  him- 
self back  into  the  corner  of  his  brougham.  Mr.  Harding 
said  nothing  more,  but  commenced  playing  a  dirge,  with  an 
imaginary  fiddle  bow  upon  an  imaginary  violoncello,  for 
which  there  did  not  appear  to  be  quite  room  enough  in  the 
carriage;  and  he  continued  the  tune,  with  sundry  variations, 
till  he  arrived  at  the  rectory  door. 

The  archdeacon  had  been  meditating  sad  things  in  his 
mind.  Hitherto  he  had  always  looked  on  his  father-in-law 
as  a  true  partisan,  though  he  knew  him  to  be  a  man  devoid 
of  all  the  combative  qualifications  for  that  character.  He 
had  felt  no  fear  that  Mr.  Harding  would  go  over  to  the  en- 
emy, though  he  had  never  counted  much  on  the  ex-warden's 
prowess  in  breaking  the  hostile  ranks.  Now,  however,  it 
seemed  that  Eleanor,  with  her  wiles,  had  completely  tre- 
panned and  bewildered  her  father,  cheated  him  out  of  his 
judgment,  robbed  him  of  the  predilections  and  tastes  of  his 
life,  and  caused  him  to  be  tolerant  of  a  man  whose  arrogance 
and  vulgarity  would,  a  few  years  since,  have  been  unendur- 
able to  him.  That  the  whole  thing  was  as  good  as  arranged 
between  Eleanor  and  Mr.  Slope  there  was  no  longer  any 
room  to  doubt.  That  Mr.  Harding  knew  that  such  was  the 
case,  even  this  could  hardly  be  doubted.  It  was  too  manifest 
that  he  at  any  rate  suspected  it,  and  was  prepared  to  sanc- 
tion it. 

And  to  tell  the  truth,  such  was  the  case.  Mr,  Harding 
disliked  Mr.  Slope  as  much  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  dislike 
any  man.  Had  his  daughter  wished  to  do  her  worst  to  dis- 
please him  by  a  second  marriage,  she  could  hardly  have  suc- 
ceeded better  than  by  marrying  Mr.  Slope.  But,  as  he  said 
to  himself  now  very  often,  what  right  had  he  to  condemn 
her  if  she  did  nothing  that  was  really  wrong?  If  she  liked 
Mr.  Slope  it  was  her  aflFair.  It  was  indeed  miraculous  to 
him  that  a  woman  with  such  a  mind,  so  educated,  so  refined, 
so  nice  in  her  tastes,  should  like  such  a  man.  Then  he  asked 
himself  whether  it  was  possible  that  she  did  so? 

Ah,  thou  weak  man ;  most  charitable,  most  Christian,  but 
weakest  of  men!     Why  couldst  thou  not  have  asked  herself? 

264 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

Was  she  not  the  daughter  of  thy  loins,  the  child  of  thy 
heart,  the  best  beloved  to  thee  of  all  humanity  ?  Had  she 
not  proved  to  thee,  by  years  of  closest  affection,  her  truth 
and  goodness  and  filial  obedience?  And  yet,  knowing  and 
feeling  all  this,  thou  couldst  endure  to  go  groping  in  dark- 
ness, hearing  her  named  in  strains  which  wounded  thy  loving 
heart,  and  being  unable  to  defend  her  as  thou  shouldst  have 
done! 

Mr.  Harding  had  not  believed,  did  not  believe,  that  his 
daughter  meant  to  marry  this  man ;  but  he  feared  to  commit 
himself  to  such  an  opinion.  If  she  did  do  it  there  would  be 
then  no  means  of  retreat.  The  wishes  of  his  heart  were — 
First,  that  there  should  be  no  truth  in  the  archdeacon's  sur- 
mises ■;  and  in  this  wish  he  would  have  fain  trusted  entirely, 
had  he  dared  so  to  do;  Secondly,  that  the  match  might  be 
prevented,  if  unfortunately,  it  had  been  contemplated  by 
Eleanor;  Thirdly,  that  should  she  be  so  infatuated  as  to 
marry  this  man,  he  might  justify  his  conduct,  and  declare 
that  no  cause  existed  for  his  separating  himself  from  her. 

He  wanted  to  believe  her  incapable  of  such  a  marriage ;  he 
wanted  to  show  that  he  so  believed  of  her;  but  he  wanted 
also  to  be  able  to  say  hereafter,  that  she  had  done  nothing 
amiss,  if  she  should  unfortunately  prove  herself  to  be  differ- 
ent from  what  he  thought  her  to  be. 

Nothing  but  affection  could  justify  such  fickleness ;  but 
affection  did  justify  it.  There  was  but  little  of  the  Roman 
about  Mr.  Harding.  He  could  not  sacrifice  his  Lucretia 
even  though  she  should  be  polluted  by  the  accepted  addresses 
of  the  clerical  Tarquin  at  the  palace.  H  Tarquin  could  be 
prevented,  well  and  good ;  but  if  not,  the  father  would  still 
open  his  heart  to  his  daughter,  and  accept  her  as  she  pre- 
sented herself,  Tarquin  and  all. 

Dr.  Grantly's  mind  was  of  a  stronger  calibre,  and  he  was 
by  no  means  deficient  in  heart.  He  loved  with  an  honest 
genuine  love  his  wife  and  children  and  friends.  He  loved 
his  father-in-law;  and  was  quite  prepared  to  love  Eleanor 
too.  if  she  would  be  one  of  his  party,  if  she  Avould  be  on  his 
side,  if  she  would  regard  the  Slopes  and  the  Proudies  as  the 
enemies  of  mankind,  and  acknowledge  and  feel  the  comfort- 
able merits  of  the  Gwynnes  and  Arabins.     He  wished  to  be 

265 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

what  he  called  "safe"  with  all  those  whom  he  had  admitted 
to  the  penetralia  of  his  house  and  heart.  He  could  luxuriate 
in  no  society  that  was  deficient  in  a  certain  feeling  of  faithful 
staunch  high-churchism,  which  to  him  was  tantamount  to 
freemasonry.  He  was  not  strict  in  his  lines  of  definition.  He 
endured  without  impatience  many  different  shades  of  Anglo- 
church  conservatism;  but  with  the  Slopes  and  Proudies  he 
could  not  go  on  all  fours. 

He  was  wanting  in,  moreover,  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
correct  to  say,  he  was  not  troubled  by  that  womanly  tender- 
ness which  was  so  peculiar  to  Mr.  Harding.  His  feelings 
towards  his  friends  .were,  that  while  they  stuck  to  him  he 
would  stick  to  them ;  that  he  would  work  with  them  shoulder 
and  shoulder;  that  he  would  be  faithful  to  the  faithful.  He 
knew  nothing  of  that  beautiful  love  which  can  be  true  to  a 
false  friend. 

And  thus  these  two  men,  each  miserable  enough  in  his  own 
way,  returned  to  Plumstead. 

It  was  getting  late  when  they  arrived  there,  and  the  ladies 
had  already  gone  up  to  dress.  Nothing  more  was  said  as 
the  two  parted  in  the  hall.  As  Mr.  Harding  passed  to  his 
own  room  he  knocked  at  Eleanor's  door  and  handed  in  the 
letter.  The  archdeacon  hurried  to  his  own  territory,  there  to 
unburden  his  heart  to  his  faithful  partner. 

What  colloquy  took  place  between  the  marital  chamber 
and  the  adjoining  dressing-room  shall  not  be  detailed.  The 
reader,  now  intimate  with  the  persons  concerned,  can  well 
imagine  it.  The  whole  tenor  of  it  also  might  be  read  in 
Mrs.  Grantly's  brow  as  she  came  down  to  dinner. 

Eleanor,  when  she  received  the  letter  from  her  father's 
hand,  had  no  idea  from  whom  it  came.  She  had  never  seen 
Mr.  Slope's  hand-writing,  or  if  so  had  forgotten  it ;  and  did 
not  think  of  him  as  she  twisted  the  letter  as  people  do  twist 
letters  when  thev  do  not  immediately  recognise  their  corre- 
spondents either  bv  the  writing  or  the  seal.  She  was  sitting 
at  her  glass  brushine  her  hair,  and  risine  every  other  minute 
to  play  with  her  boy,  who  was  sprawlinsf  on  the  bed.  and 
who  engaged  pretty  nearly  the  whole  attention  of  the  maid 
as  well  as  of  his  mother. 

At  last,  sitting  before  her  toilet  table,  she  broke  the  seal, 

266 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

and  turning  over  the  leaf  saw  Mr.  Slope's  name.  She  first 
felt  surprised,  and  then  annoyed,  and  then  anxious.  As  she 
read  it  she  became  interested.  She  was  so  delighted  to  find 
that  all  obstacles  to  her  father's  return  to  the  hospital  were 
apparently  removed  that  she  did  not  observe  the  fulsome 
language  in  which  the  tidings  were  conveyed.  She  merely 
perceived  that  she  was  commissioned  to  tell  her  father  that 
such  was  the  case,  and  she  did  not  realise  the  fact  that  such 
a  communication  should  not  have  been  made,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, to  her  by  an  unmarried  young  clergyman.  She  felt, 
on  the  whole,  grateful  to  Mr.  Slope,  and  anxious  to  get  on 
her  dress  that  she  might  run  with  the  news  to  her  father. 
Then  she  came  to  the  allusion  to  her  own  pious  labours,  and 
she  said  in  her  heart  that  Mr.  Slope  was  an  affected  ass. 
Then  she  went  on  again  and  was  offended  by  her  boy  being 
called  Mr.  Slope's  darling — he  was  nobody's  darling  but  her 
own ;  or  at  any  rate  not  the  darling  of  a  disagreeable  stranger 
like  Mr.  Slope.  Lastly  she  arrived  at  the  tresses  and  felt  a 
qualm  of  disgust.  She  looked  up  in  the  glass,  and  there 
they  were  before  her,  long  and  silken,  certainly,  and  very 
beautiful.  I  will  not  say  but  that  she  knew  them  to  be  so, 
but  she  felt  angry  with  them  and  brushed  them  roughly  and 
carelessly.  She  crumpled  the  letter  up  with  angry  violence, 
and  resolved,  almost  without  thinking  of  it,  that  she  would 
not  show  it  to  her  father.  She  would  merely  tell  him  the 
contents  of  it.  She  then  comforted  herself  again  with  her 
boy,  had  her  dress  fastened,  and  went  down  to  dinner. 

As  she  tripped  down  the  stairs  she  began  to  ascertain  that 
there  was  some  difificulty  in  her  situation.  She  could  not 
keep  from  her  father  the  news  about  the  hospital,  nor  could 
she  comfortably  confess  the  letter  from  Mr.  Slope  before  the 
Grantlys.  Her  father  had  already  gone  down.  She  had 
heard  his  step  upon  the  lobby.  She  resolved  therefore  to 
take  him  aside,  and  tell  him  her  little  bit  of  news.  Poor  girl ! 
she  had  no  idea  how  severely  the  unfortunate  letter  had  al- 
ready been  discussed. 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room  the  whole  party  were 
there,  including  Mr.  Arabin.  and  the  whole  party  looked 
glum  and  sour.  The  two  girls  sat  silent  and  apart  as  though 
they  were   aware  that   something  was   wrong.     Even    Mr. 

267 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Arabin  was  solemn  and  silent.  Eleanor  had  not  seen  him 
since  breakfast.  He  had  been  the  whole  day  at  St.  Ewold's, 
and  such  having  been  the  case  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
tell  how  matters  were  going  on  there.  He  did  nothing  of 
the  kind,  however,  but  remained  solemn  and  silent.  They 
were  all  solemn  and  silent.  Eleanor  knew  in  her  heart  that 
they  had  been  talking  about  her,  and  her  heart  misgave  her 
as  she  thought  of  Mr.  Slope  and  his  letter.  At  any  rate  she 
felt  it  to  be  quite  impossible  to  speak  to  her  father  alone 
while  matters  were  in  this  state. 

Dinner  was  soon  announced  and  Dr.  Grantly,  as  was  his 
wont,  gave  Eleanor  his  arm.  But  he  did  so  as  though  the 
doing  it  were  an  outrage  on  his  feelings  rendered  necessary 
by  sternest  necessity.  With  quick  sympathy  Eleanor  felt 
this,  and  hardly  put  her  fingers  on  his  coat  sleeve.  It  may 
be  guessed  in  what  way  the  dinner-hour  was  passed.  Dr. 
Grantly  said  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Arabin,  Mr.  Arabin  said  a 
few  words  to  Mrs.  Grantly,  she  said  a  few  words  to  her  fa- 
ther, and  he  tried  to  say  a  few  words  to  Eleanor.  She  felt 
that  she  had  been  tried  and  found  guilty  of  something, 
though  she  knew  not  what.  She  longed  to  say  out  to  them 
all,  "Well,  what  is  it  that  I  have  done ;  out  with  it,  and  let  me 
know  my  crime ;  for  heaven's  sake  let  me  hear  the  worst  of 
it ;"  but  she  could  not.  She  could  say  nothing,  but  sat  there 
silent,  half  feeling  that  she  was  guilty,  and  trying  in  vain  to 
pretend  even  to  eat  her  dinner. 

At  last  the  cloth  was  drawn,  and  the  ladies  were  not  long 
following  it.  When  they  were  gone  the  gentlemen  were 
somewhat  more  sociable  but  not  much  so.  They  could  not  of 
course  talk  over  Eleanor's  sins.  The  archdeacon  had  indeed 
so  far  betrayed  his  sister-in-law  as  to  whisper  into  Mr.  Ara- 
bin's  ear  in  the  study,  as  they  met  there  before  dinner,  a  hint 
of  what  he  feared.  He  did  so  with  the  gravest-  and  saddest 
of  fears,  and  Mr.  Arabin  became  grave  and  apparently  sad 
enough  as  he  heard  it.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  his  mouth 
and  said  in  a  sort  of  whisper  "Mr.  Slope !"  in  the  same  way 
as  he  might  have  said  "The  Cholera !"  had  his  friend  told 
him  that  that  horrid  disease  was  in  his  nursery.  "I  fear  so, 
I  fear  so,"  said  the  archdeacon,  and  then  together  they  left 
the  room. 

268 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

We  will  not  accurately  analyse  Mr.  Arabin's  feelings  on 
receipt  of  such  astounding  tidings.  It  will  sufifice  to  say  that 
he  was  surprised,  vexed,  sorrowful,  and  ill  at  ease.  He  had 
not  perhaps  thought  very  much  about  Eleanor,  but  he  had 
appreciated  her  influence,  and  had  felt  that  close  intimacy 
with  her  in  a  country  house  was  pleasant  to  him,  and  also 
beneficial.  He  had  spoken  highly  of  her  intelligence  to  the 
archdeacon,  and  had  walked  about  the  shrubberies  with  her, 
carrying  her  boy  on  his  back.  When  Mr.  Arabin  had  called 
Johnny  his  darling,  Eleanor  was  not  angry. 

Thus  the  three  men  sat  over  their  wine,  all  thinking  of 
the  same  subject,  but  unable  to  speak  of  it  to  each  other.  So 
we  will  leave  them,  and  follow  the  ladies  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  received  a  commission  from  her  husband, 
and  had  undertaken  it  with  some  unwillingness.  He  had  de- 
sired her  to  speak  gravely  to  Eleanor,  and  to  tell  her  that,  if 
she  persisted  in  her  adherence  to  Mr.  Slope,  she  could  no 
longer  look  for  the  countenance  of  her  present  friends.  Mrs. 
Grantly  probably  knew  her  sister  better  than  the  doctor  did, 
and  assured  him  that  it  would  be  in  vain  to  talk  to  her.  The 
only  course  likely  to  be  of  any  service  in  her  opinion  was  to 
keep  Eleanor  away  from  Barchester.  Perhaps  she  might 
have  added,  for  she  had  a  very  keen  eye  in  such  things,  that 
there  might  also  be  ground  for  hope  in  keeping  Eleanor  near 
Mr.  Arabin.  Of  this,  however,  she  said  nothing.  But  the 
archdeacon  would  not  be  talked  over;  he  spoke  much  of  his 
conscience,  and  declared  that  if  Mrs.  Grantly  would  not  do  it 
he  would.  So  instigated,  the  lady  undertook  the  task,  stat- 
ing, however,  her  full  conviction  that  her  interference  would 
be  worse  than  useless.     And  so  it  proved. 

As  soon  as  they  were  in  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Grantly 
found  some  excuse  for  sending  her  girls  away,  and  then  be- 
gan her  task.  She  knew  well  that  she  could  exercise  but 
very  slight  authority  over  her  sister.  Their  various  modes 
of  life,  and  the  distance  between  their  residences,  had  pre- 
vented any  very  close  confidence.  They  had  hardly  lived 
together  since  Eleanor  was  a  child.  Eleanor  had  moreover, 
especially  in  latter  years,  resented  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way  the 
dictatorial  authority  which  the  archdeacon  seemed  to  exer- 

269 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

cise  over  her  father,  and  on  this  account  had  been  unwilling 
to  allow  the  archdeacon's  wife  to  exercise  authority  over 
herself. 

"You  got  a  note  just  before  dinner,  I  believe,"  began  the 
eldest  sister. 

Eleanor  acknowledged  that  she  had  done  so,  and  felt  that 
she  turned  red  as  she  acknowledged  it.  She  would  have 
given  anything  to  have  kept  her  colour,  but  the  more  she 
tried  to  do  so  the  more  signally  she  failed. 

"Was  it  not  from  Mr.  Slope?" 

Eleanor  said  that  the  letter  was  from  Mr.  Slope. 

"Is  he  a  regular  correspondent  of  yours,  Eleanor?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  she,  already  beginning  to  feel  angry  at 
the  cross-examination.  She  determined,  and  why  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say,  that  nothing  should  induce  her  to  tell  her 
sister  Susan  what  was  the  subject  of  the  letter.  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly,  she  knew,  was  instigated  by  the  archdeacon,  and  she 
would  not  plead  to  any  arraignment  made  against  her  by 
him. 

"But,  Eleanor,  dear,  why  do  you  get  letters  from  Mr. 
Slope  at  all,  knowing,  as  you  do,  he  is  a  person  so  distaste- 
ful to  papa,  and  to  the  archdeacon,  and  indeed  to  all  your 
friends  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,  Susan,  I  don't  get  letters  from  him ;  and 
in  the  next  place,  as  Mr.  Slope  wrote  the  one  letter  which  I 
have  got.  and  as  I  only  received  it,  which  I  could  not  very 
well  help  doing,  as  papa  handed  it  to  me,  I  think  you  had 
better  ask  Mr.  Slope  instead  of  me." 

"What  was  his  letter  about,  Eleanor?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  she,  "because  it  was  confidential. 
It  was  on  business  respecting  a  third  person." 

"It  was  in  no  way  personal  to  yourself,  then?" 

"I  won't  exactly  say  that,  Susan,"  said  she,  getting  more 
and  more  angry  at  her  sister's  questions. 

"Well,  I  must  say  it's  rather  singular,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly, 
afifecting  to  laugh,  "that  a  young  lady  in  your  position  should 
receive  a  letter  from  an  unmarried  gentleman  of  which  she 
will  not  tell  the  contents,  and  which  she  is  ashamed  to  show 
to  her  sister." 

"I  am  not  ashamed,"  said  Eleanor,  blazing  up;  "I  am  not 

270 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

ashamed  of  anything  in  the  matter;  only  I  do  not  choose  to 
be  cross-examined  as  to  my  letters  by  any  one." 

"Well,  dear,"  said  the  other,  "I  cannot  but  tell  you  that  I 
do  not  think  Mr.  Slope  a  proper  correspondent  for  you." 

"If  he  be  ever  so  improper,  how  can  I  help  his  having 
written  to  me?  But  you  are  all  prejudiced  against  him  to 
such  an  extent,  that  that  which  would  be  kind  and  generous 
in  another  man  is  odious  and  impudent  in  him.  I  hate  a  re- 
ligion that  teaches  one  to  be  so  onesided  in  one's  charity." 

"I  am  sorry,  Eleanor,  that  you  hate  the  religion  you  find 
here;  but  surely  you  should  remember  that  in  such  matters 
the  archdeacon  must  know  more  of  the  world  than  you  do. 
I  don't  ask  you  to  respect  or  comply  with  me,  although  I 
am,  unfortunately,  so  many  years  your  senior ;  but  surely,  in 
such  a  matter  as  this,  you  might  consent  to  be  guided  by  the 
archdeacon.  He  is  most  anxious  to  be  your  friend  if  you 
will  let  him." 

"In  such  a  matter  as  what?"  said  Eleanor  very  testily. 
"Upon  my  word  I  don't  know  what  this  is  all  about." 

"We  all  want  you  to  drop  Mr.  Slope." 

"You  all  want  me  to  be  as  illiberal  as  yourselves.  That  I 
shall  never  be.  I  see  no  harm  in  Mr.  Slope's  acquaintance, 
and  I  shall  not  insult  the  man  by  telling  him  that  I  do.  He 
has  thought  it  necessary  to  write  to  me,  and  I  do  not  want 
the  archdeacon's  advice  about  the  letter.  If  I  did  I  would 
ask  it." 

"Then,  Eleanor,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,"  and  now  she 
spoke  with  a  tremendous  gravity,  "that  the  archdeacon 
thinks  that  such  a  correspondence  is  disgraceful,  and  that  he 
cannot  allow  it  to  go  on  in  his  house." 

Eleanor's  eyes  flashed  fire  as  she  answered  her  sister, 
jumping  up  from  her  seat  as  she  did  so.  "You  may  tell  the 
archdeacon  that  wherever  I  am  I  shall  receive  what  letters  I 
please  and  from  whom  I  please.  And  as  for  the  word  dis- 
graceful, if  Dr.  Grantlv  has  used  it  of  me  he  has  been  un- 
manly and  inhospitable,"  and  she  walked  off  to  the  door. 
"When  papa  comes  from  the  dining-room  T  will  thank  you 
to  ask  him  to  step  up  to  my  bed-room.  I  will  show  him  Mr. 
Slope's  letter,  but  I  will  show  it  to  no  one  else."  And  so 
saying  she  retreated  to  her  baby. 

271 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

She  had  no  conception  of  the  crime  with  which  she  was 
charged.  The  idea  that  she  could  be  thought  by  her  friends 
to  regard  Mr.  Slope  as  a  lover,  had  never  flashed  upon  her. 
She  conceived  that  they  were  all  prejudiced  and  illiberal  in 
their  persecution  of  him,  and  therefore  she  would  not  join 
in  the  persecution,  even  though  she  greatly  disliked  the  man. 

Eleanor  was  very  angry  as  she  seated  herself  in  a  low 
chair  by  her  open  window  at  the  foot  of  her  child's  bed.  "To 
dare  to  say  I  have  disgraced  myself,"  she  repeated  to  herself 
more  than  once.  "How  papa  can  put  up  with  that  man's 
arrogance !  I  will  certainly  not  sit  down  to  dinner  in  his 
house  again  unless  he  begs  my  pardon  for  that  word."  And 
then  a  thought  struck  her  that  Mr.  Arabin  might  perchance 
hear  of  her  "disgraceful"  correspondence  with  Mr.  Slope, 
and  she  turned  crimson  with  pure  vexation.  Oh,  if  she  had 
known  the  truth?  If  she  could  have  conceived  that  Mr. 
Arabin  had  been  informed  as  a  fact  that  she  was  going  to 
marry  Mr.  Slope ! 

She  had  not  been  long  in  her  room  before  her  father  joined 
her.  As  he  left  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Grantly  took  her 
husband  into  the  recess  of  the  window,  and  told  him  how 
signally  she  had  failed. 

"I  will  speak  to  her  myself  before  I  go  to  bed,"  said  the 
archdeacon. 

"Pray  do  no  such  thing,"  said  she;  "you  can  do  no  good 
and  will  only  make  an  unseemly  quarrel  in  the  house.  You 
have  no  idea  how  headstrong  she  can  be." 

The  archdeacon  declared  that  as  to  that  he  was  quite  in- 
different. He  knew  his  duty  and  would  do  it.  Mr.  Harding 
was  weak  in  the  extreme  in  such  matters.  He  would  not 
have  it  hereafter  on  his  conscience  that  he  had  not  done  all 
that  in  him  lay  to  prevent  so  disgraceful  an  alliance.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Mrs.  Grantly  assured  him  that  speaking  to  Elea- 
nor angrily  would  only  hasten  such  a  crisis,  and  render  it 
certain  if  at  present  there  were  any  doubt.  He  was  angry, 
self-willed,  and  sore.  The  fact  that  a  lady  of  his  household 
had  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Slope  had  wounded  his  pride 
in  the  sorest  place,  and  nothing  could  control  him. 

Mr.  Harding  looked  worn  and  woebegone  as  he  entered 
his  daughter's  room.     These  sorrows  worried  him  sadly.   He 

272 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

felt  that  if  they  were  continued  he  must  go  to  the  wall  in  the 
Oianner  so  kindly  prophesied  to  him  by  the  chaplain.  He 
knocked  gently  at  his  daughter's  door,  waited  till  he  was  dis- 
tinctly bade  to  enter,  and  then  appeared  as  though  he  and  not 
she  were  the  suspected  criminal. 

Eleanor's  arm  was  soon  within  his,  and  she  had  soon  kissed 
his  forehead  and  caressed  him,  not  with  joyous  but  with 
eager  love.  "Oh,  papa,"  she  said,  "I  do  so  want  to  speak  to 
you.  They  have  been  talking  about  me  down  stairs  to- 
night; don't  you  know  they  have,  papa?" 

Mr.  Harding  confessed  with  a  sort  of  murmur  that  the 
archdeacon  had  been  speaking  of  her. 

"I  shall  hate  Dr.  Grantly  soon " 

"Oh  my  dear !" 

"Well;  I  shall.  I  cannot  help  it.  He  is  so  uncharitable, 
so  unkind,  so  suspicious  of  every  one  that  does  not  worship 
himself:  and  then  he  is  so  monstrously  arrogant  to  other 
people  who  have  a  right  to  their  opinions  as  well  as  he  has  to 
his  own." 

"He  is  an  earnest  eager  man,  my  dear :  but  he  never  means 
to  be  unkind." 

"He  is  unkind,  papa,  most  unkind.  There,  I  got  that  let- 
ter from  Mr.  Slope  before  dinner.  It  was  you  yourself  who 
gave  it  to  me.  There;  pray  read  it.  It  is  all  for  you.  It 
should  have  been  addressed  to  you.  You  know  how  they 
have  been  talking  about  it  down  stairs.  You  know  how  they 
behaved  to  me  at  dinner.  And  since  dinner  Susan  has  been 
preaching  to  me,  till  I  could  not  remain  in  the  room  with  her. 
Read  it,  papa ;  and  then  say  whether  that  is  a  letter  that  need 
make  Dr.  Grantly  so  outrageous." 

Mr.  Harding  took  his  arm  from  his  daughter's  waist,  and 
slowly  read  the  letter.  She  expected  to  see  his  countenance 
lit  with  joy  as  he  learnt  that  his  path  back  to  the  hospital  was 
made  so  smooth;  but  she  was  doomed  to  disappointment,  as 
had  once  been  the  case  before  on  a  somewhat  similar  occa- 
sion. His  first  feeling  was  one  of  unmitigated  disgust  that 
Mr.  Slope  should  have  chosen  to  interfere  in  his  behalf.  He 
had  been  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  hospital,  but  he  would 
have  infinitely  sooner  resigned  all  pretensions  to  the  place, 
than  have  owed  it  in  any  manner  to  Mr.  Slope's  influence  in 

18  273 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

his  favour.  Then  he  thoroughly  disliked  the  tone  of  Mr. 
Slope's  letter;  it  was  unctuous,  false,  and  unwholesome,  like 
the  man.  He  saw,  which  Eleanor  had  failed  to  see,  that 
much  more  had  been  intended  than  was  expressed.  The  ap- 
peal to  Eleanor's  pious  labours  as  separate  from  his  own 
grated  sadly  against  his  feelings  as  a  father.  And  then  when 
he  came  to  the  "darling  boy"  and  the  "silken  tresses,"  he 
slowly  closed  and  folded  the  letter  in  despair.  It  was  im- 
possible that  Mr.  Slope  should  so  write  unless  he  had  been 
encouraged.  It  was  impossible  Eleanor  should  have  received 
such  a  letter,  and  have  received  it  without  annoyance,  unless 
she  were  willing  to  encourage  him.  So  at  least  Mr.  Hard- 
ing argued  to  himself. 

How  hard  it  is  to  judge  accurately  of  the  feelings  of  oth- 
ers. Mr.  Harding,  as  he  came  to  the  close  of  the  letter,  in 
his  heart  condemned  his  daughter  for  indelicacy,  and  it  made 
him  miserable  to  do  so.  She  was  not  responsible  for  what 
Mr.  Slope  might  write.  True.  But  then  she  expressed  no 
disgust  at  it.  She  had  rather  expressed  approval  of  the  let- 
ter as  a  whole.  She  had  given  it  to  him  to  read,  as  a  vindi- 
cation for  herself  and  also  for  him.  The  father's  spirit  sank 
within  him  as  he  felt  that  he  could  not  acquit  her. 

And  yet  it  was  the  true  feminine  delicacy  of  Eleanor's 
mind  which  brought  her  on  this  condemnation.  Listen  to 
m.e,  ladies,  and  I  beseech  yon  to  acquit  her.  She  thought  of 
this  man,  this  lover  of  whom  she  was  so  unconscious,  exactly 
as  her  father  did,  exactly  as  the  Grantlys  did.  At  least  she 
esteemed  him  personally  as  they  did.  But  she  believed  him 
to  be  in  the  rnain  an  honest  man,  and  one  truly  inclined  to 
assist  her  father.  She  felt  herself  bound,  after  what  had 
passed,  to  show  this  letter  to  Mr.  Harding.  She  thought  it 
necessary  that  he  should  know  what  Mr.  Slope  had  to  say. 
But  she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  apologise  for,  or  con- 
demn, or  even  allude  to  the  vulgarity,  of  the  man's  tone, 
which  arose,  as  does  all  vulgarity,  from  ignorance.  It  was 
nauseous  to  her  to  have  a  man  like  Mr.  Slope  commenting 
on  her  personal  attractions;  and  she  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  dilate  with  her  father  upon  what  was  nauseous.  She 
never  supposed  they  could  disagree  on  such  a  subject.  It 
would  have  been  painful  for  her  to  point  it  out,  painful  for 

274 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    PLUMSTEAD. 

her  to  speak  strongly  against  a  man  of  whom,  on  the  whole, 
she  was  anxious  to  think  and  speak  well.  In  encountering 
such  a  man  she  had  encountered  what  was  disagreeable,  as 
she  might  do  in  walking  the  streets.  But  in  such  encounters 
she  never  thought  it  necessary  to  dwell  on  what  disgusted 
her. 

And  he,  foolish  weak  loving  man,  would  not  say  one 
word,  though  one  word  would  have  cleared  up  everything. 
There  would  have  been  a  deluge  of  tears,  and  in  ten  minutes 
every  one  in  the  house  would  have  understood  how  matters 
really  were.  The  father  would  have  been  delighted.  The 
sister  would  have  kissed  her  sister  and  begged  a  thousand 
pardons.  The  archdeacon  would  have  apologised  and  won- 
dered, and  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  gone  to  bed  a  happy 
man.  And  Mr.  Arabin — Mr.  Arabin  would  have  dreamt  of 
Eleanor,  have  awoke  in  the  morning  with  ideas  of  love,  and 
retired  to  regt  the  next  evening  with  schemes  of  marriage. 
But,  alas !  all  this  was  not  to  be. 

Mr.  Harding  slowly  folded  the  letter,  handed  it  back  to 
her,  kissed  her  forehead  and  bade  God  bless  her.  He  then 
crept  slowly  away  to  his  own  room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  passage  another  knock  was 
given  at  Eleanor's  door,  and  Mrs.  Grantly's  very  demure  own 
maid,  entering  on  tiptoe,  wanted  to  know  would  Mrs.  Bold 
be  so  kind  as  to  speak  to  the  archdeacon  for  two  minutes, 
in  the  archdeacon's  study,  if  not  disagreeable.  The  arch- 
deacon's compliments,  and  he  wouldn't  detain  her  two 
minutes. 

Eleanor  thought  it  was  very  disagreeable;  she  was  tired 
and  fagged  and  sick  at  heart;  her  present  feelings  towards 
Dr.  Grantly  were  anything  but  those  of  affection.  She  was, 
however,  no  coward,  and  therefore  promised  to  be  in  the 
study  in  five  minutes.  So  she  arranged  her  hair,  tied  on  her 
cap,  and  went  down  with  a  palpitating  heart. 


275 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 
CHAPTER   XXIX. 

A   SERIOUS   INTERVIEW. 

THERE  are  people  who  delight  in  serious  interviews, 
especially  when  to  them  appertains  the  part  of  offer- 
ing advice  or  administering  rebuke,  and  perhaps  the  arch- 
deacon was  one  of  these.  Yet  on  this  occasion  he  did  not 
prepare  liimself  for  the  coming  conversation  with  much  an- 
ticipation of  pleasure.  Whatever  might  be  his  faults  he  was 
not  an  inhospitable  man,  and  he  almost  felt  that  he  was  sin- 
ning against  hospitality  in  upbraiding  Eleanor  in  his  own 
house.  Then,  also,  he  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  would  get 
the  best  of  it.  His  wife  had  told  him  that  he  decidedly  would 
not,  and  he  usually  gave  credit  to  what  his  wife  said.  He 
was,  however,  so  convinced  of  what  he  considered  to  be  the 
impropriety  of  Eleanor's  conduct,  and  so  assured  also  of  his 
own  duty  in  trying  to  check  it,  that  his  conscience  would 
not  allow  him  to  take  his  wife's  advice  and  go  to  bed 
quietly. 

Eleanor's  face  as  she  entered  the  room  was  not  such  as  to 
reassure  him.  As  a  rule  she  was  always  mild  in  manner  and 
gentle  in  conduct ;  but  there  was  that  in  her  eye  which  made 
it  not  an  easy  task  to  scold  her.  In  truth  she  had  been  little 
used  to  scolding.  No  one  since  her  childhood  had  tried  it 
but  the  archdeacon,  and  he  had  generally  failed  when  he  did 
try  it.  He  had  never  done  so  since  her  marriage ;  and  now, 
when  he  saw  her  quiet  easy  step,  as  she  entered  his  room,  he 
almost  wished  that  he  had  taken  his  wife's  advice. 

He  began  by  apologising  for  the  trouble  he  was  giving  her. 
She  begged  him  not  to  mention  it,  assured  him  that  walking 
down  stairs  was  no  trouble  to  her  at  all,  and  then  took  a  seat 
and  waited  patiently  for  him  to  be^rin  his  attack. 

"My  dear  Eleanor,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  believe  me  when 
I  assure  you  that  you  have  no  sincerer  friend  than  I  am." 
To  this  Eleanor  answered  nothing,  and  therefore  he  proceed- 
ed. "If  you  had  a  brother  of  your  own  I  should  not  prob- 
ably trouble  you  with  what  I  am  going  to  say.  But  as  it  is  I 
cannot  but  think  that  it  must  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  know 


A    SERIOUS    INTERVIEW. 

that  you  have  near  you  one  who  is  as  anxious  for  your  wel- 
fare as  any  brother  of  your  own  could  be." 

"I  never  had  a  brother,"  said  she. 

"I  know  you  never  had,  and  it  is  therefore  that  I  speak  to 
you." 

"I  never  had  a  brother,"  she  repeated ;  "btit  I  have  hardly 
felt  the  want.   Papa  has  been  to  me  both  father  and  brother." 

"Your  father  is  the  fondest  and  most  afifectionate  of  men. 
But—" 

"He  is — the  fondest  and  most  affectionate  of  men,  and  the 
best  of  counsellors.  While  he  lives  I  can  never  want  ad- 
vice." 

This  rather  put  the  archdeacon  out.  He  could  not  exactly 
contradict  what  his  sister-in-law  said  about  her  father ;  and 
yet  he  did  not  at  all  agree  with  her.  He  wanted  her  to  un- 
derstand that  he  tendered  his  assistance  because  her  father 
was  a  soft  good-natured  gentleman,  not  sufficiently  knowing 
in  the  ways  of  the  world ;  but  he  could  not  say  this  to  her. 
So  he  had  to  rush  into  the  subject  matter  of  his  proffered 
counsel  without  any  acknowledgment  on  her  part  that  she 
could  need  it,  or  would  be  grateful  for  it. 

"Susan  tells  me  that  you  received  a  letter  this  evening 
from  Mr.  Slope." 

"Yes;  papa  brought  it  in  the  brougham.  Did  he  not  tell 
you?" 

"And  Susan  says  that  you  objected  to  let  her  know  what 
it  was  about." 

"I  don't  think  she  asked  me.  But  had  she  done  so  I  should 
not  have  told  her.  I  don't  think  it  nice  to  be  asked  about 
one's  letters.  If  one  wishes  to  show  them  one  does  so  with- 
out being  asked." 

"True.  Quite  so.  What  you  say  is  quite  true.  But  is 
not  the  fact  of  your  receiving  letters  from  Mr.  Slope,  which 
you  do  not  wish  to  show  to  your  friends,  a  circumstance 
which  must  excite  some — some  surprise — some  suspicion — " 

"Suspicion !"  said  she,  not  speaking  above  her  usual  voice, 
speaking  still  in  a  soft  womanly  tone,  but  yet  with  indigna- 
tion ;  "suspicion !  and  who  suspects  me,  and  of  what  ?"  And 
then  there  was  a  pause,  for  the  archdeacon  was  not  quite 
ready  to  explain   the  ground  of  his  suspicion.     "No,   Dr. 

277 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

Grantly,  I  did  not  choose  to  show  Mr.  Slope's  letter  to  Susan. 
I  could  not  show  it  to  any  one  till  papa  had  seen  it.  If  you 
have  any  wish  to  read  it  now,  you  can  do  so,"  and  she  handed 
the  letter  to  him  over  the  table. 

This  was  an  amount  of  compliance  which  he  had  not  at 
all  expected,  and  which  rather  upset  him  in  his  tactics.  How- 
ever, he  took  the  letter,  perused  it  carefully,  and  then  refold- 
ing it,  kept  it  on  the  table  under  his  hand.  To  him  it  ap- 
peared to  be  in  almost  every  respect  the  letter  of  a  declared 
lover ;  it  seemed  to  corroborate  his  worst  suspicions ;  and  the 
fact  of  Eleanor's  showing  it  to  him  was  all  but  tantamount 
to  a  declaration  on  her  part,  that  it  was  her  pleasure  to  re- 
ceive love-letters  from  Mr.  Slope.  He  almost  entirely  over- 
looked the  real  subject-matter  of  the  epistle ;  so  intent  was  he 
on  the  forthcoming  courtship  and  marriage. 

"I'll  thank  you  to  give  it  me  back,  if  you  please.  Dr. 
Grantly." 

He  took  it  in  his  hand  and  held  it  up,  but  made  no  imme- 
diate overture  to  return  it.  "And  Mr.  Harding  has  seen 
this?"  said  he. 

"Of  course  he  has,"  said  she;  ^'it  was  written  that  he 
might  see  it.  It  refers  solely  to  his  business — of  course  I 
showed  it  to  him." 

"And,  Eleanor,  do  you  think  that  that  is  a  proper  letter 
for  you — for  a  person  in  your  condition — to  receive  from  Mr. 
Slope?" 

"Quite  a  proper  letter,"  said  she,  speaking,  perhaps,  a  little 
out  of  obstinacy ;  probably  forgetting  at  the  moment  the  ob- 
jectionable mention  of  her  silken  curls. 

"Then,  Eleanor,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  I  wholly 
differ  from  you." 

"So  I  suppose,"  said  she,  instigated  now  by  sheer  opposi- 
tion and  determination  not  to  succumb.  "You  think  Mr. 
Slope  is  a  messenger  direct  from  Satan.  I  think  he  is  an 
industrious,  well  meaning  clergyman.  It's  a  pity  that  we 
differ  as  we  do.  But,  as  we  do  differ,  we  had  probably  bet- 
ter not  talk  about  it." 

Here  Eleanor  undoubtedly  put  herself  in  the  wrong.  She 
might  probably  have  refused  to  talk  to  Dr.  Grantly  on  the 
matter  in  dispute  without  anv  impropriety ;  but  having  con- 

278 


A    SERIOUS    INTERVIEW. 

sented  to  listen  to  him,  she  had  no  business  to  tell  him  that 
he  regarded  Mr.  Slope  as  an  emissary  from  the  evil  one;  nor 
was  she  justified  in  praising  Mr.  Slope,  seeing  that  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  did  not  think  well  of  him.  She  was, 
however,  wounded  in  spirit,  and  angry  and  bitter.  She  had 
been  subjected  to  contumely  and  cross-questioning  and  ill- 
usage  through  the  whole  evening.  No  one,  not  even  Mr. 
Arabin,  not  even  her  father,  had  been  kind  to  her.  All  this 
she  attributed  to  the  prejudice  and  conceit  of  the  archdeacon, 
and  therefore  she  resolved  to  set  no  bounds  to  her  antagon- 
ism to  him.  She  would  neither  give  nor  take  quarter.  He 
had  greatly  presumed  in  daring  to  question  her  about  her 
correspondence,  and  she  was  determined  to  show  that  she 
thought  so. 

"Eleanor,  you  are  forgetting  yourself,"  said  he,  looking 
very  sternly  at  her.  "Otherwise  you  would  never  tell  me  that 
I  conceive  any  man  to  be  a  messenger  from  Satan." 

"But  you  do,"  said  she.  "Nothing  is  too  bad  for  him. 
Give  me  that  letter,  if  you  please;"  and  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  and  took  it  from  him.  "He  has  been  doing  his  best 
to  serve  papa,  doing  more  than  any  of  papa's  friends  could 
do ;  and  yet,  because  he  is  the  chaplain  of  a  bishop  whom 
you  don't  like,  you  speak  of  him  as  though  he  had  no  right 
to  the  usage  of  a  gentleman." 

"He  has  done  nothing  for  your  father." 

"I  believe  that  he  has  done  a  great  deal ;  and,  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  I  am  grateful  to  him.  Nothing  that  you  can 
say  can  prevent  my  being  so.  I  judge  people  by  their  acts, 
and  his.  as  far  as  I  can  see  them,  are  good."  She  then 
paused  for  a  moment.  "If  you  have  nothing  further  to  say, 
I  shall  be  obliged  by  being  permitted  to  say  good  night — I 
am  very  tired." 

Dr.  Grantly  had,  as  he  thought,  done  his  best  to  be  gra- 
cious to  his  sister-in-law.  He  had  endeavoured  not  to  be 
harsh  to  her,  and  had  striven  to  pluck  the  sting  from  his  re- 
buke. But  he  did  not  intend  that  she  should  leave  him  with- 
out hearing  him. 

"I  have  something  to  say,  Eleanor ;  and  I  fear  I  must  trouble 
you  to  hear  it.  You  profess  that  it  is  quite  proper  that  you 
should  receive  from  Mr.  Slope  such  letters  as  that  you  have 

279 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

in  your  hand.  Susan  and  I  think  very  differently.  You 
are,  of  course,  your  own  mistress,  and  much  as  we  both  must 
g-rieve  should  anything  separate  you  from  us,  we  have  no 
power  to  prevent  you  from  taking  steps  which  may  lead  to 
such  a  separation.  If  you  are  so  wilful  as  to  reject  the  coun- 
sel of  your  friends,  you  must  be  allowed  to  cater  for  your- 
self. But  Eleanor,  I  may  at  any  rate  ask  you  this.  Is  it 
worth  your  while  to  break  away  from  all  those  you  have 
loved — from  all  who  love  you — for  the  sake  of  Mr.  Slope?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Dr.  Grantly;  I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about.  I  don't  want  to  break  away  from 
anybody." 

"But  you  will  do  so  if  you  connect  yourself  with  Mr.  Slope. 
Eleanor,  I  must  speak  out  to  you.  You  must  choose  between 
your  sister  and  myself  and  our  friends,  and  Mr,  Slope  and 
his  friends.  I  say  nothing  of  your  father,  as  you  may  prob- 
ably understand  his  feelings  better  than  I  do." 

"What  do  you  mean.  Dr.  Grantly?  What  am  I  to  under- 
stand?    I  never  heard  such  wicked  prejudice  in  my  life." 

"It  is  not  prejudice,  Eleanor.  I  have  known  the  world 
longer  than  you  have  done.  Mr.  Slope  is  altogether  beneath 
you.  You  ought  to  know  and  feel  that  he  is  so.  Pray — 
pray  think  of  this  before  it  is  too  late." 

"Too  late!" 

"Or  if  you  will  not  believe  me,  ask  Susan ;  you  cannot 
think  she  is  prejudiced  against  you.  Or  even  consult  your 
father,  he  is  not  prejudiced  against  you.  Ask  Mr.  Ara- 
bin " 

"You  haven't  spoken  to  Mr.  Arabin  about  this !"  said  she, 
jumping  up  and  standing  before  him. 

"Eleanor,  all  the  world  in  and  about  Barchester  will  be 
speaking  of  it  soon." 

"But  have  you  spoken  to  Mr.  Arabin  about  me  and  Mr. 
Slope?" 

"Certainly  I  have,  and  he  quite  agrees  with  me." 

"Agrees  with  what?"  said  she.  "I  think  you  are  trying  to 
drive  me  mad." 

"He  agrees  with  me  and  Susan  that  it  is  quite  impossible 
yon  should  be  received  at  Plumstead  as  Mrs.  Slope." 

Not  being  favourites  with  the  tragic  muse  we  do  not  dare 

280 


A    SERIOUS    INTERVIEW. 

to  attempt  any  description  of  Eleanor's  face  w!ien  she  first 
heard  the  name  of  Mrs.  Slope  pronounced  as  that  which 
would  or  should  or  might  at  some  time  appertain  to  herself. 
The  look,  such  as  it  was,  Dr.  Grantly  did  not  soon  forget. 
For  a  moment  or  two  she  could  find  no  words  to  express  her 
deep  anger  and  deep  disgust;  and,  indeed,  at  this  conjunc- 
ture, words  did  not  come  to  her  very  freely. 

"How  dare  you  be  so  impertinent?"  at  last  she  said;  and 
then  hurried  out  of  the  room,  without  giving  the  archdeacon 
the  opportunity  of  uttering  another  word.  It  was  with  diffi- 
culty she  contained  herself  till  she  reached  her  own  room; 
and  then  locking  the  door,  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

But  even  yet  she  had  no  conception  of  the  truth.  She  had 
no  idea  that  her  father  and  her  sister  had  for  days  past  con- 
ceived in  sober  earnest  the  idea  that  she  was  going  to  marry 
this  man.  She  did  not  even  then  believe  that  the  archdeacon 
thought  that  she  would  do  so.  By  some  manoeuvre  of  her 
brain,  she  attributed  the  origin  of  the  accusation  to  Mr.  Ara- 
bin,  and  as  she  did  so  her  anger  against  him  was  excessive, 
and  the  vexation  of  her  spirit  almost  unendurable.  She 
could  not  bring  herself  to  think  that  the  charge  was  made 
seriously.  It  appeared  to  her  most  probable  that  the  arch- 
deacon and  Mr.  Arabin  had  talked  over  her  objectionable  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Slope ;  that  Mr.  Arabin,  in  his  jeering, 
sarcastic  way,  had  suggested  the  odious  match  as  being  the 
severest  way  of  treating  with  contumely  her  acquaintance 
with  his  enemy ;  and  that  the  archdeacon,  taking  the  idea 
from  him,  thought  proper  to  punish  her  by  the  allusion.  The 
whole  night  she  lay  awake  thinking  of  what  had  been  said, 
and  this  appeared  to  be  the  most  probable  solution. 

But  the  reflection  that  Mr.  Arabin  should  have  in  any  way 
mentioned  her  name  in  connection  with  that  of  Mr.  Slope 
was  overpowering;  and  the  spiteful  ill-nature  of  the  arch- 
deacon, in  repeating  the  charge  to  her,  made  her  wish  to 
leave  his  house  almost  before  the  day  had  broken.  One 
thing  was  certain  :  nothing  should  make  her  stay  there  be- 
yond the  following  morning,  and  nothing  should  make  her 
sit  down  to  breakfast  in  company  with  Dr.  Grantly.  When 
she  thought  of  the  man  whose  name  had  been  linked  with  her 

281 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

own,  she  cried  from  sheer  disgust.  It  was  only  because  she 
would  be  thus  disgusted,  thus  pained  and  shocked  and  cut  to 
the  quick,  that  the  archdeacon  had  spoken  the  horrid  word. 
He  wanted  to  make  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Slope,  and  there- 
fore he  had  outraged  her  by  his  abominable  vulgarity.  She 
determined  that  at  any  rate  he  should  know  that  she  appre- 
ciated it. 

Nor  was  the  archdeacon  a  bit  better  satisfied  with  the  re- 
sult of  his  serious  interview  than  was  Eleanor.  He  gathered 
from  it,  as  indeed  he  could  hardly  fail  to  do,  that  she  was 
very  angry  with  him ;  but  he  thought  that  she  was  thus 
angry,  not  because  she  was  suspected  of  an  intention  to  marry 
Mr.  Slope,  but  because  such  an  intention  was  imputed  to  her 
as  a  crime.  Dr.  Grantly  regarded  this  supposed  union  with 
disgust ;  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  Eleanor  was  out- 
raged, because  she  looked  at  it  exactly  in  the  same  light. 

He  returned  to  his  wife  vexed  and  somewhat  disconsolate, 
but,  nevertheless,  confirmed  in  his  wrath  against  his  sister-in- 
law.  "Her  whole  behaviour,"  said  he,  "has  been  most  objec- 
tionable. She  handed  me  his  love  letter  to  read  as  though 
she  were  proud  of  it.  And  she  is  proud  of  it.  She  is  proud 
of  having  this  slavering,  greedy  man  at  her  feet.  She  will 
throw  herself  and  John  Bold's  money  into  his  lap ;  she  will 
ruin  her  boy,  disgrace  her  father  and  you,  and  be  a  wretched 
miserable  woman." 

His  spouse,  who  was  sitting  at  her  toilet  table,  continued 
her  avocations,  making  no  answer  to  all  this.  She  had 
known  that  the  archdeacon  would  gain  nothing  by  interfer- 
ing; but  she  was  too  charitable  to  provoke  him  by  saying  so 
while  he  was  in  such  deep  sorrow. 

"This  comes  of  a  man  making  such  a  will  as  that  of 
Bold's,"  he  continued.  "Eleanor  is  no  more  fitted  to  be 
trusted  with  such  an  amount  of  money  in  her  own  hands  than 
is  a  charity-school  girl."  Still  Mrs.  Grantly  made  no  reply. 
"But  I  have  done  my  duty ;  I  can  do  nothing  further.  I 
have  told  her  plainly  that  she  cannot  be  allowed  to  form  a 
link  of  connection  between  me  and  that  man.  From  hence- 
forward it  will  not  be  in  my  power  to  make  her  welcome  at 
Plumstead.  I  cannot  have  Mr.  Slope's  love  letters  coming 
here.     Susan,  I  think  you  had  better  let  her  understand  that 

282 


A    SERIOUS    INTERVIEW. 

as  her  mind  on  this  subject  seems  to  be  irrevocably  fixed,  it 
will  be  better  for  all  parties  that  she  should  return  to  Bar- 
chester." 

Now  Mrs.  Grantly  was  angry  with  Eleanor,  nearly  as  an- 
gry as  her  husband ;  but  she  had  no  idea  of  turning  her  sister 
out  of  the  house.  She,  therefore,  at  length  spoke  out,  and 
explained  to  the  archdeacon,  in  her  own  mild  seducing  way, 
that  he  was  fuming  and  fussing  and  fretting  himself  very  un- 
necessarily. She  declared  that  things,  if  left  alone,  would 
arrange  themselves  much  better  than  he  could  arrange  them ; 
and  at  last  succeeded  in  inducing  him  to  go  to  bed  in  a  some- 
what less  inhospitable  state  of  mind. 

On  the  following  morning  Eleanor's  maid  was  commis- 
sioned to  send  word  into  the  dining-room  that  her  mistress 
was  not  well  enough  to  attend  prayers,  and  that  she  would 
breakfast  in  her  own  room.  Here  she  was  visited  by  her  fa- 
ther and  declared  to  him  her  intention  of  returning  immedi- 
ately to  Barchester.  He  was  hardly  surprised  by  the  an- 
nouncement. All  the  household  seemed  to  be  aware  that 
something  had  gone  wrong.  Every  one  walked  about  with 
subdued  feet,  and  people's  shoes  seemed  to  creak  more  than 
usual.  There  was  a  look  of  conscious  intelligence  on  the 
faces  of  the  women :  and  the  men  attempted,  but  in  vain,  to 
converse  as  though  nothing  were  the  matter.  All  this  had 
weighed  heavily  on  the  heart  of  Mr.  Harding;  and  when 
Eleanor  told  him  that  her  immediate  return  to  Barchester  was 
a  necessity,  he  merely  sighed  piteously,  and  said  that  he 
would  be  ready  to  accompany  her. 

But  here  she  objected  strenuously.  She  had  a  great  wish, 
she  said,  to  go  alone ;  a  great  desire  that  it  might  be  seen  that 
her  father  was  not  implicated  in  her  quarrel  with  Dr.  Grant- 
ly. To  this  at  last  he  gave  way ;  but  not  a  word  passed  be- 
tween them  about  Mr.  Slope — not  a  word  was  said,  not  a 
question  asked  as  to  the  serious  interview  on  the  preceding 
evening.  There  was,  indeed,  very  little  confidence  between 
them,  though  neither  of  them  knew  why  it  should  be  so. 
Eleanor  once  asked  him  whether  he  would  not  call  upon  the 
bishop ;  but  he  answered  rather  tartly  that  he  did  not  know — 
he  did  not  think  he  should,  but  he  could  not  say  just  at  pres- 
ent.    And  so  they  parted.     Each  was  miserably  anxious  for 

283 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

some  show  of  affection,  for  some  return  of  confidence,  for 
some  sign  of  the  feeHng  that  usually  bound  them  together. 
But  none  was  given.  The  father  could  not  bring  himself  to 
question  his  daughter  about  her  supposed  lover;  and  the 
daughter  would  not  sully  her  mouth  by  repeating  the  odious 
word  with  which  Dr.  Grantly  had  roused  her  wrath.  And 
so  they  parted. 

There  was  some  trouble  in  arranging  the  method  of  Elea- 
nor's return.  She  begged  her  father  to  send  for  a  post- 
chaise  ;  but  when  Mrs.  Grantly  heard  of  this,  she  objected 
strongly.  If  Eleanor  would  go  away  in  dudgeon  with  the 
archdeacon,  why'  should  she  let  all  the  servants  and  all  the 
neighbourhood  know  that  she  had  done  so  ?  So  at  last  Elea- 
nor consented  to  make  use  of  the  Plumstead  carriage ;  and  as 
the  archdeacon  had  gone  out  immediately  after  breakfast  and 
was  not  to  return  till  dinner-time,  she  also  consented  to  post- 
pone her  journey  till  after  lunch,  and  to  join  the  family  at 
that  time.  As  to  the  subject  of  the  quarrel  not  a  word  was 
said  by  any  one.  The  affair  of  the  carriage  was  arranged 
by  Mr.  Harding,  who  acted  as  Mercurv  between  the  two 
ladies ;  they,  when  they  met,  kissed  each  other  very  lovingly, 
and  then  sat  down  each  to  her  crochet  work  as  though  noth- 
ing was  amiss  in  all  the  world. 


B 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

ANOTHER   LOVE   SCENE. 

UT  there  was  another  visitor  at  the  rectory  whose  feel- 
ings in  this  unfortunate  matter  must  be  somewhat 
strictly  analysed.  Mr.  Arabin  had  heard  from  his  friend  of 
the  probability  of  Eleanor's  marriage  with  Mr.  Slope  with 
amazement,  but  not  with  incredulity.  It  has  been  said  that 
he  was  not  in  love  with  Eleanor,  and  up  to  this  period  this 
certainly  had  been  true.  But  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  she 
loved  some  one  else,  he  began  to  be  very  fond  of  her  himself. 
He  did  not  make  up  his  mind  that  he  wished  to  have  her 
for  his  wife ;  he  had  never  thought  of  her,  and  did  not  now 
think  of  her,  in  connection  with  himself;  but  he  experienced 

284 


ANOTHER    LOVE    SCENE. 

an  inward  indefinable  feeling  of  deep  regret,  a  gnawing  sor- 
row, an  unconquerable  depression  of  spirits,  and  also  a  spe- 
cies of  self-abasement  that  he — he,  Mr.  Arabin — had  not 
done  something  to  prevent  that  other  he,  that  vile  he,  whom 
he  so  thoroughly  despised,  from  carrying  ofif  this  sweet  prize. 

Whatever  man  may  have  reached  the  age  of  forty  unmar- 
ried without  knowing  something  of  such  feelings  must  have 
been  very  successful  or  else  very  cold-hearted. 

Mr.  Arabin  had  never  thought  of  trimming  the  sails  of  his 
bark  so  that  he  might  sail  as  convoy  to  this  rich  argosy.  He 
had  seen  that  Mrs.  Bold  was  beautiful,  but  he  had  not  dreamt 
of  making  her  beauty  his  own.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Bold  was 
rich,  but  he  had  had  no  more  idea  of  appropriating  her 
wealth  than  that  of  Dr.  Grantly.  He  had  discovered  that 
Mrs^.  Bold  was  intelligent,  warm-hearted,  agreeable,  sensible, 
all,  in  fact,  that  a  man  could  wish  his  wife  to  be ;  but  the 
higher  were  her  attractions,  the  greater  her  claims  to  consid- 
eration, the  less  had  he  imagined  that  he  might  possibly  be- 
come the  possessor  of  them.  Such  had  been  his  instinct 
rather  than  his  thoughts,  so  humble  and  so  diffident.  Now 
his  diffidence  was  to  be  rewarded  by  his  seeing  this  woman, 
whose  beauty  was  to  his  eyes  perfect,  whose  wealth  was  such 
as  to  have  deterred  him  from  thinking  of  her,  whose  widow- 
hood would  have  silenced  him  had  he  not  been  so  deterred, 

by     his     seeing    her     become     the     prey     of  Obadiah 

Slope ! 

On  the  morning  of  Mrs.  Bold's  departure  he  got  on  his 
horse  to  ride  over  to  St.  Ewold's.  As  he  rode  he  kept  mut- 
tering to  himself  a  line  from  Van  Artevelde, 

"How  little  flattering  is  woman's  love." 

And  then  he  strove  to  recall  his  mind  and  to  think  of  other 
affairs,  his  parish,  his  college,  his  creed — but  his  thoughts 
would  revert  to  Mr.  Slope  and  the  Flemish  chieftain. — 

"When    we    think    upon    it, 
How  little  flattering  is  woman's  love, 
Given   commonly   to   whosoe'er   is   nearest 
And    propped   with   most   advantage." 

It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Bold  should  marry  any  one  but  him ;  he 

285 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

had  not  put  himself  forward  as  a  suitor ;  but  that  she  should 
marry  Mr.  Slope — and  so  he  repeated  over  again — 

"Outward   grace 
Nor  inward  light  is  needful — day  by  day 
Men   wanting  both  are  mated   with   the  best 
And   loftiest   of   God's   feminine   creation, 
Whose  love  takes  no  distinction  but  of  gender, 
And  ridicules  the  very  name  of  choice." 

And  so  he  went  on,  troubled  much  in  his  mind. 

He  had  but  an  uneasy  ride  of  it  that  morning,  and  Httle 
good  did  he  do  at  St.  Ewold's. 

The  necessary  alterations  in  his  house  were  being  fast 
completed,  and  he  walked  through  the  rooms,  and  went  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  and  rambled  through  the  garden ;  but  he 
could  not  wake  himself  to  much  interest  about  them.  He 
stood  still  at  every  window  to  look  out  and  think  upon  Mr. 
Slope.  At  almost  every  window  he  had  before  stood  and 
chatted  with  Eleanor.  She  and  Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  there 
continually,  and  while  Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  giving  orders, 
and  seeing  that  orders  had  been  complied  with,  he  and  Elea- 
nor had  conversed  on  all  things  appertaining  to  a  clergy- 
man's profession.  He  thought  how  often  he  had  laid  down 
the  law  to  her,  and  how  sweetly  she  had  borne  with  his  some- 
what dictatorial  decrees.  He  remembered  her  listening  in- 
telligence, her  gentle  but  quick  replies,  her  interest  in  all  that 
concerned  the  church,  in  all  that  concerned  him ;  and  then  he 
struck  his  riding  whip  against  the  window  sill,  and  declared 
to  himself  that  it  was  impossible  that  Eleanor  Bold  should 
marry  Mr.  Slope. 

And  yet  he  did  not  really  believe,  as  he  should  have  done, 
that  it  was  impossible.  He  should  have  known  her  well 
enough  to  feel  that  it  was  truly  impossible.  He  should  have 
been  aware  that  Eleanor  had  that  within  her  which  would 
surely  protect  her  from  such  degradation.  But  he,  like  so 
many  others,  was  deficient  in  confidence  in  woman.  He  said 
to  himself  over  and  over  again  that  it  was  impossible  that 
Eleanor  Bold  should  become  Mrs.  Slope,  and  yet  he  believed 
that  she  would  do  so.  And  so  he  rambled  about,  and  could 
do  and  think  of  nothing.  He  was  thoroughly  uncomfort- 
able, thoroughly  ill  at  ease,  cross  with  himself,  and  everybody 

286 


ANOTHER   LOVE    SCENE. 

else,  and  feeding  in  his  heart  on  animosity  towards  Mr. 
Slope.  This  was  not  as  it  should  be,  as  he  knew  and  felt; 
but  he  could  not  help  himself.  In  truth  Mr,  Arabin  was  now 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Bold,  though  ignorant  of  the  fact  himself. 
He  was  in  love,  and,  though  forty  years  old,  was  in  love 
without  being  aware  of  it.  He  fumed  and  fretted,  and  did 
not  know  what  was  the  matter,  as  a  youth  might  do  at  one- 
and-twenty.  And  so  having  done  no  good  at  St.  Ewold's, 
he  rode  back  much  earlier  than  was  usual  with  him,  insti- 
gated by  some  inward  unacknowledged  hope  that  he  might 
see  Mrs.  Bold  before  she  left. 

Eleanor  had  not  passed  a  pleasant  morning.  She  was  irri- 
tated with  every  one,  and  not  least  with  herself.  She  felt 
that  she  had  been  hardly  used,  but  she  felt  also  that  she  had 
not  played  her  own  cards  well.  She  should  have  held  her- 
self so  far  above  suspicion  as  to  have  received  her  sister's  in- 
nuendoes and  the  archdeacon's  lecture  with  indifference.  Sb^ 
had  not  done  this,  but  had  shown  herself  angry  and  sore,  and 
was  now  ashamed  of  her  own  petulance,  and  yet  unable  to 
discontinue  it. 

The  greater  part  of  the  morning  she  had  spent  alone ;  but 
after  a  while  her  father  joined  her.  He  had  fully  made  up 
his  mind  that,  come  what  come  might,  nothing  should  sep- 
arate him  from  his  younger  daughter.  It  was  a  hard  task 
for  him  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  idea  of  seeing  her  at  the 
head  of  Mr.  Slope's  table ;  but  he  got  through  it.  Mr.  Slope, 
as  he  argued  to  himself,  was  a  respectable  man  and  a  clergy- 
man ;  and  he,  as  Eleanor's  father,  had  no  right  even  to  en- 
deavour to  prevent  her  from  marrying  such  a  one.  He 
longed  to  tell  her  how  he  had  determined  to  prefer  her  to  all 
the  world,  how  he  was  prepared  to  admit  that  she  was  not 
wrong,  how  thoroughly  he  differed  from  Dr.  Grantly;  but 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  mention  Mr.  Slope's  name. 
There  was  yet  a  chance  that  they  were  all  wrong  in  their  sur- 
mise !  and,  being  thus  in  doubt,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
speak  openly  to  her  on  the  subject. 

He  was  sitting  with  her  in  the  drawing-room,  with  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  saying  every  now  and  then  some  little  soft 
words  of  affection,  and  working  hard  with  his  imaginary 
fiddle-bow,  when  Mr.  Arabin  entered  the  room.     He  imme- 

287 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

diately  got  up,  and  the  two  made  some  trite  remarks  to  each 
other,  neither  thinking  of  what  he  was  saying,  while  Eleanor 
kept  her  seat  on  the  sofa  mute  and  moody.  Mr.  Arabin  was 
included  in  the  list  of  those  against  whom  her  anger  was  ex- 
cited. He,  too,  had  dared  to  talk  about  her  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Slope;  he,  too,  had  dared  to  blame  her  for  not 
making  an  enemy  of  his  enemy.  She  had  not  intended  to 
see  him  before  her  departure,  and  was  now  but  little  inclined 
to  be  gracious. 

There  was  a  feeling  through  the  whole  house  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  Mr.  Arabin,  when  he  saw  Eleanor,  could 
not  succeed  in  looking  or  in  speaking  as  though  he  knew 
nothing  of  all  this.  He  could  not  be  cheerful  and  positive 
and  contradictory  with  her,  as  was  his  wont.  He  had  not 
been  two  minutes  in  the  room  before  he  felt  that  he  had 
done  wrong  to  return ;  and  the  moment  he  heard  her  voice, 
he  thoroughly  wished  himself  back  at  St.  Ewold's.  Why, 
indeed,  should  he  have  wished  to  have  aught  further  to  say 
to  the  future  wife  of  Mr.  Slope  ? 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  are  to  leave  us  so  soon,"  said 
he,  striving  in  vain  to  use  his  ordinary  voice.  In  answer  to 
this  she  muttered  something  about  the  necessity  of  her  being 
in  Barchester,  and  betook  herself  most  industriously  to  her 
crochet  work. 

Then  there  was  a  little  more  trite  conversation  between 
Mr.  Arabin  and  Mr.  Harding;  trite,  and  hard,  and  vapid,  and 
senseless.  Neither  of  them  had  anything  to  say  to  the  other, 
and  yet  neither  at  such  a  moment  liked  to  remain  silent.  At 
last  Mr.  Harding,  taking  advantage  of  a  pause,  escaped  out 
of  the  room,  and  Eleanor  and  Mr.  Arabin  were  left  together. 

"Your  going  v/ill  be  a  great  break-up  to  our  party," 
said  he. 

She  again  muttered  something  which  was  all  but  inaudible ; 
but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  work. 

"We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  month  here,"  said  he ; 
"at  least  I  have ;  and  I  am  sorry  it  should  be  so  soon 
over." 

"I  have  already  been  from  home  longer  than  I  intended," 
said  she ;  "and  it  is  time  that  I  should  return." 

"Well,  pleasant  hours  and  pleasant  days  must  come  to  an 

288 


ANOTHER   LOVE    SCENE. 

end.  It  is  a  pity  that  so  few  of  them  are  pleasant;  or  per- 
haps, rather" 

"It  is  a  pity,  certainly,  that  men  and  women  do  so  much 
to  destroy  the  pleasantness  of  their  days,"  said  she,  interrupt- 
ing him.  "It  is  a  pity  that  there  should  be  so  little  charity 
abroad." 

"Charity  should  begin  at  home,"  said  he ;  and  he  was  pre- 
paring to  explain  that  he  as  a  clergyman  could  not  be  what 
she  would  call  charitable  at  the  expense  of  those  principles 
which  he  considered  it  his  duty  to  teach,  when  he  remem- 
bered that  it  would  be  worse  than  vain  to  argue  on  such  a 
matter  with  the  future  wife  of  Mr.  Slope.  "But  you  are 
just  leaving  us,"  he  continued,  "and  I  will  not  weary  your 
last  hour  with  another  lecture.  As  it  is,  I  fear  I  have  given 
you  too  many.". 

"You  should  practise  as  well  as  preach,  Mr.  Arabin  ?" 

"Undoubtedly  I  should.  So  should  we  all.  All  of  us 
who  presume  to  teach  are  bound  to  do  our  utmost  towards 
fulfilling  our  own  lessons.  I  thoroughly  allow  my  deficiency 
in  doing  so :  but  I  do  not  quite  know  now  to  what  you  allude. 
Have  you  any  special  reason  for  telling  me  now  that  I  should 
practise  as  well  as  preach?" 

Eleanor  made  no  answer.  She  longed  to  let  him  know 
the  cause  of  her  anger,  to  upbraid  him  for  speaking  of  her 
disrespectfully,  and  then  at  last  to  forgive  him,  and  so  part 
friends.  She  felt  that  she  would  be  unhappy  to  leave  him 
in  her  present  frame  of  mind ;  but  yet  she  could  hardly  bring 
herself  to  speak  to  him  of  Mr.  Slope.  And  how  could  she 
allude  to  the  innuendo  thrown  out  by  the  archdeacon,  and 
thrown  out,  as  she  believed,  at  the  instigation  of  Mr.  Arabin  ? 
She  wanted  to  make  him  know  that  he  was  wrong,  to  make 
him  aware  that  he  had  ill-treated  her,  in  order  that  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  forgiveness  might  be  enhanced.  She  felt  that 
she  liked  him  too  well  to  be  contented  to  part  with  him  in  dis- 
pleasure ;  and  yet  she  could  not  get  over  her  deep  displeasure 
without  some  explanation,  some  acknowledgment  on  his  part, 
some  assurance  that  he  would  never  again  so  sin  against  her. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  that  I  should  practise  what  I 
preach?"  continued  he. 

"All  men  should  do  so." 

"  289 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Certainly.  That  is  as  it  were  understood  and  acknowl- 
edged. But  you  do  not  say  so  to  all  men,  or  to  all  clergy- 
men. The  advice,  good  as  it  is,  is  not  given  except  in  allu- 
sion to  some  special  deficiency.  If  you  will  tell  me  my 
special  deficiency,  I  will  endeavour  to  profit  by  the  advice." 

She  paused  for  a  while,  and  then,  looking  full  in  his  face, 
she  said,  "You  are  not  bold  enough,  Mr.  Arabin,  to  speak  out 
to  me  openly  and  plainly,  and  yet  you  expect  me,  a  woman, 
to  speak  openly  to  you.  Why  did  you  speak  calumny  of  me 
to  Dr.  Grantly  behind  my  back?" 

"Calumny!"  said  he,  and  his  whole  face  became  suffused 
with  blood;  "what  calumny?  If  I  have  spoken  <:alumny  of 
you,  I  will  beg  your  pardon,  and  his  to  whom  I  spoke  it,  and 
God's  pardon  also.  But  what  calumny  have  I  spoken  of  you 
to  Dr.  Grantly  ?" 

She  also  blushed  deeply.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
ask  him  whether  he  had  not  spoken  of  her  as  another  man's 
wife.  "You  know  that  best  yourself,"  said  she;  "but  I  ask 
you  as  a  man  of  honour,  if  you  have  not  spoken  of  me  as 
you  would  not  have  spoken  of  your  own  sister ;  or  rather  I 
will  not  ask  you,"  she  continued,  finding  that  he  did  not  im- 
mediately answer  her.  "I  will  not  put  you  to  the  necessity 
of  answering  such  a  question.  Dr.  Grantly  has  told  me  what 
you  said." 

"Dr.  Grantly  certainly  asked  me  for  my  advice,  and  I  gave 
it.     He  asked  me" 

"I  know  he  did,  Mr.  Arabin.  He  asked  you  whether  he 
would  be  doing  right  to  receive  me  at  Plumstead,  if  I  contin- 
ued my  acquaintance  with  a  gentleman  who  happens  to  be 
personally  disagreeable  to  yourself  and  to  him  ?" 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mrs.  Bold.  I  have  no  personal  knowl- 
edge of  Mr.  Slope ;  I  never  met  him  in  my  life." 

"You  are  not  the  less  individually  hostile  to  him.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  question  the  propriety  of  your  enmity;  but  I  had  a 
right  to  expect  that  my  name  should  not  have  been  mixed  up 
in  your  hostilities.  This  has  been  done,  and  been  done  by 
you  in  a  manner  the  most  injurious  and  the  most  distressing 
to  me  as  a  woman.  I  must  confess,  Mr.  Arabin,  that  from 
you  I  expected  a  different  sort  of  usage." 

As  she  spoke  she  with  difficulty  restrained  her  tears ;  but 

290 


ANOTHER    LOVE    SCENE. 

she  did  restrain  them.  Had  she  given  way  and  sobbed  aloud, 
as  in  such  cases  a  woman  should  do,  he  would  have  melted 
at  once,  implored  her  pardon,  perhaps  knelt  at  her  feet  and 
declared  his  love.  Everything  would  have  been  explained, 
and  Eleanor  would  have  gone  back  to  Barchester  with  a  con- 
tented mind.  How  easily  would  she  have  forgiven  and  for- 
gotten the  archdeacon's  suspicions  had  she  but  heard  the 
whole  truth  from  Mr.  Arabin.  But  then  where  would  have 
been  my  novel?  She  did  not  cry,  and  Mr.  Arabin  did  not 
melt. 

"You  do  me  an  injustice,"  said  he.  "My  advice  was  asked 
by  Dr.  Grantly,  and  I  was  obliged  to  give  it." 

"Dr.  Grantly  has  been  most  officious,  most  impertinent.  I 
have  as  complete  a  right  to  form  my  acquaintance  as  he  has 
to  form  his.  What  would  you  have  said,  had  I  consulted 
you  as  to  the  propriety  of  my  banishing  Dr.  Grantly  from 
my  house  because  he  knows  Lord  Tattenham  Corner?  I 
am  sure  Lord  Tattenham  is  quite  as  objectionable  an  ac- 
quaintance for  a  clergyman  as  Mr.  Slope  is  for  a  clergyman's 
daughter." 

"I  do  not  know  Lord  Tattenham  Corner." 

"No ;  but  Dr.  Grantly  does.  It  is  nothing  to  me  if  he 
knows  all  the  young  lords  on  every  racecourse  In  England. 
I  shall  not  interfere  with  him ;  nor  shall  he  with  me." 

"I  am  sorry  to  differ  with  you,  Mrs.  Bold ;  but  as  you  have 
spoken  to  me  on  this  matter,  and  especially  as  you  blame  me 
for  what  little  I  said  on  the  subject,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  do 
differ  from  you.  Dr.  Grantly's  position  as  a  man  in  the 
world  gives  him  a  right  to  choose  his  own  acquaintances, 
subject  to  certain  influences.  If  he  chooses  them  badly, 
those  influences  will  be  used.  If  he  consorts  with  persons 
unsuitable  to  him,  his  bishop  will  interfere.  What  the  bishop 
is  to  Dr.  Grantly,  Dr.  Grantly  is  to  you." 

"I  deny  it.  I  utterly  deny  it,"  said  Eleanor,  jumping  from 
her  seat,  and  literally  flashing  before  Mr.  Arabin,  as  she 
stood  on  the  drawing-room  floor.  He  had  never  seen  her  so 
excited,  he  had  never  seen  her  look  half  so  beautiful. 

"I  utterly  deny  it,"  said  she.  "Dr.  Grantly  has  no  sort  of 
jurisdiction  over  me  whatsoever.  Do  you  and  he  forget  that 
I  am  not  altogether  alone  in  the  world?     Do  you  forget  that 

291 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

I  have  a  father?  Dr.  Grantly,  I  believe,  always  has  forgot- 
ten it. 

"From  you,  Mr.  Arabin,"  she  continued,  "I  would  have 
listened  to  advice,  because  I  should  have  expected  it  to  have 
been  given  as  one  friend  may  advise  another ;  not  as  a  school- 
master gives  an  order  to  a  pupil.  I  might  have  differed 
from  you ;  on  this  matter  I  should  have  done  so ;  but  had  you 
spoken  to  me  in  your  usual  manner  and  with  your  usual  free- 
dom  I   should  not  have  been  angry.     But  now was  it 

manly  of  you,  Mr.  Arabin,  to  speak  of  me  in  this  way , 

so  disrespectful — so ?     I  cannot  bring  myself  to  repeat 

what  you  said.  You  must  understand  what  I  feel.  Was  it 
just  of  you  to  speak  of  me  in  such  a  way,  and  to  advise  my 
sister's  husband  to  turn  me  out  of  my  sister's  house,  because 
I  chose  to  know  a  man  of  whose  doctrine  you  disap- 
prove?'' 

"I  have  no  alternative  left  to  me,  Mrs.  Bold,"  said  he, 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire-place,  looking  down  intently 
at  the  carpet  pattern,  and  speaking  with  a  slow  measured 
voice,  "but  to  tell  you  plainly  what  did  take  place  between 
me  and  Dr.  Grantly." 

"Well,"  said  she,  finding  that  he  paused  for  a  moment. 

"I  am  afraid  that  what  I  may  say  may  pain  you." 

"It  cannot  well  do  so  more  than  what  you  have  already 
done,"  said  she. 

"Dr.  Grantly  asked  me  whether  I  thought  it  would  be  pru- 
dent for  him  to  receive  you  in  his  house  as  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Slope,  and  I  told  him  that  I  thought  it  would  be  imprudent. 
Believing  it  to  be  utterly  impossible  that  Mr.  Slope  and " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Arabin,  that  is  sufficient.  I  do  not  want 
to  know  your  reasons,"  said  she,  speaking  with  a  terribly 
calm  voice.  "I  have  shown  to  this  gentleman  the  common- 
place civility  of  a  neighbour ;  and  because  I  have  done  so,  be- 
cause I  have  not  indulged  against  him  in  all  the  rancour  and 
hatred  which  you  and  Dr.  Grantly  consider  due  to  all  clergy- 
men who  do  not  agree  with  yourselves,  you  conclude  that  I 
am  to  marry  him ; — or  rather  you  do  not  conclude  so — no 
rational  man  could  really  come  to  such  an  outrageous  con- 
clusion without  better  ground ; — you  have  not  thou^-ht  so — 
but,  as  I  am  in  a  position  in  which  such  an  accusation  must 

292 


ANOTHER    LOVE    SCENE. 

be  peculiarly  painful,  it  is  made  in  order  that  I  may  be  terri- 
fied into  hostility  against  this  enemy  of  yours." 

As  she  finished  speaking,  she  walked  to  the  drawing-room 
window  and  stepped  out  into  the  garden.  Mr.  Arabin  was 
left  in  the  room,  still  occupied  in  counting  the  pattern  on  the 
carpet.  He  had,  however,  distinctly  heard  and  accurately 
marked  every  word  that  she  had  spoken.  Was  it  not  clear 
from  what  she  had  said,  that  the  archdeacon  had  been  wrong 
in  imputing  to  her  any  attachment  to  Mr.  Slope?  Was  it 
not  clear  that  Eleanor  was  still  free  to  make  another  choice? 
It  may  seem  strange  that  he  should  for  a  moment  have  had  a 
doubt ;  and  yet  he  did  doubt.  She  had  not  absolutely  denied 
the  charge ;  she  had  not  expressly  said  that  it  was  untrue. 
Mr.  Arabin  understood  little  of  the  nature  of  a  woman's  feel- 
ings, or  he  would  have  known  how  improbable  it  was  that 
she  should  make  any  clearer  declaration  than  she  had  done. 
Few  men  do  understand  the  nature  of  a  woman's  heart,  till 
years  have  robbed  such  understanding  of  its  value.  And  it 
is  well  that  it  should  be  so,  or  men  would  triumph  too 
easily. 

Mr.  Arabin  stood  counting  the  carpet,  unhappy,  wretched- 
ly unhappy,  at  the  hard  words  that  had  been  spoken  to  him ; 
and  yet  happy,  exquisitely  happy,  as  he  thought  that  after 
all  the  woman  whom  he  so  regarded  was  not  to  become  the 
wife  of  the  man  whom  he  so  much  disliked.  As  he  stood 
there  he  began  to  be  aware  that  he  was  himself  in  love. 
Forty  years  had  passed  over  his  head,  and  as  yet  woman's 
beauty  had  never  given  him  an  uneasy  hour.  His  present 
hour  was  very  uneasy. 

Not  that  he  remained  there  for  half  or  a  quarter  of  that 
time.  In  spite  of  what  Eleanor  had  said,  Mr.  Arabin  was,  in 
truth,  a  manly  man.  Having  ascertained  that  he  loved  this 
woman,  and  having  now  reason  to  believe  that  she  was  free 
to  receive  his  love,  at  least  if  she  pleased  to  do  so,  he  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  garden  to  make  such  wooing  as  he  could. 

He  was  not  long  in  finding  her.  She  was  walking  to  and 
fro  beneath  the  avenue  of  elms  that  stood  in  the  archdeacon's 
grounds,  skirting  the  churchyard.  What  had  passed  be- 
tween her  and  Mr.  Arabin,  had  not,  alas,  tended  to  lessen  the 
acerbity  of  her   spirit.     She  was  very  angry;  more  angry 

293 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

with  him  than  with  any  one.  How  could  he  have  so  mis- 
understood her?  She  had  been  so  intimate  with  him,  had 
allowed  him  such  latitude  in  what  he  had  chosen  to  say  to 
her,  had  complied  with  his  ideas,  cherished  his  views,  fos- 
tered his  precepts,  cared  for  his  comforts,  made  much  of  him 
in  every  way  in  which  a  pretty  woman  can  make  much  of  an 
unmarried  man  without  committing-  herself  or  her  feelings ! 
She  had  been  doing  this,  and  while  she  had  been  doing 
it  he  had  regarded  her  as  the  affianced  wife  of  another 
man. 

As  she  passed  along  the  avenue,  every  now  and  then  an 
unbidden  tear  would  force  itself  on  her  cheek,  and  as  she 
raised  her  hand  to  brush  it  away  she  stamped  with  her  little 
foot  upon  the  sward  with  very  spite  to  think  that  she  had 
been  so  treated. 

Mr.  Arabin  was  very  near  to  her  when  she  first  saw  him, 
and  she  turned  short  round  and  retraced  her  steps  down  the 
avenue,  trying  to  rid  her  cheeks  of  all  trace  of  the  tell-tale 
tears.  It  was  a  needless  endeavour,  for  Mr.  Arabin  was  in 
a  state  of  mind  that  hardly  allowed  him  to  observe  such 
trifles.  He  followed  her  down  the  walk,  and  overtook  her 
just  as  she  reached  the  end  of  it. 

He  had  not  considered  how  he  would  address  her;  he  had 
not  thought  what  he  would  say.  He  had  only  felt  that  it 
was  wretchedness  to  him  to  quarrel  with  her,  and  that  it 
would  be  happiness  to  be  allowed  to  love  her.  And  yet  he 
could  not  lower  himself  by  asking  her  pardon.  He  had  done 
her  no  wrong.  He  had  not  calumniated  her,  not  injured  her, 
as  she  had  accused  him  of  doing.  He  could  not  confess  sins 
of  which  he  had  not  been  guilty.  He  could  only  let  the  past 
be  past,  and  ask  her  as  to  her  and  his  hopes  for  the 
future. 

"I  hope  we  are  not  to  part  as  enemies?"  said  he. 

"There  shall  be  no  enmity  on  my  part,"  said  Eleanor ;  'T 
endeavour  to  avoid  all  enmities.  It  would  be  a  hollow  pre- 
tence were  I  to  say  that  there  can  be  true  friendship  between 
us  after  what  has  just  passed.  People  cannot  make  their 
friends  of  those  whom  they  despise." 

"And  am  I  despised?" 

"I  must  have  been  so  before  you  could  have  spoken  of  me 

294 


ANOTHER   LOVE    SCENE. 

as  you  did.  And  I  was  deceived,  cruelly  deceived.  I  be- 
lieved that  you  thought  well  of  me;  I  believed  that  you  es- 
teemed me." 

"Thought  well  of  you  and  esteemed  you !"  said  he.  "In 
justifying  myself  before  you,  I  must  use  stronger  words  than 
those."  He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  Eleanor's  heart  beat 
with  painful  violence  within  her  bosom  as  she  waited  for 
him  to  go  on.  "I  have  esteemed,  do  esteem  you,  as  I  never 
yet  esteemed  any  woman.  Think  well  of  you !  I  never 
thought  to  think  so  well,  so  much  of  any  human  creature. 
Speak  calumny  of  you!  Insult  you!  Wilfully  injure  you! 
I  wish  it  were  my  privilege  to  shield  you  from  calumny,  in- 
sult, and  injury.  Calumny !  ah,  me.  'Twere  almost  better 
that  it  were  so.  Better  than  to  worship  with  a  sinful  wor- 
ship ;  sinful  and  vain  also."  And  then  he  walked  along  be- 
side her,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  looking 
down  on  the  grass  beneath  his  feet,  and  utterly  at  a  loss  how 
to  express  his  meaning.  And  Eleanor  walked  beside  him 
determined  at  least  to  give  him  no  assistance. 

"Ah  me!"  he  uttered  at  last,  speaking  rather  to  himself 
than  to  her.  "Ah  me !  these  Plumstead  walks  were  pleasant 
enough,  if  one  could  have  but  heart's  ease ;  but  without  that 
the  dull  dead  stones  of  Oxford  were  far  preferable ;  and  St. 
Ewold's  too ;  Mrs.  Bold,  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  I  mis- 
took myself  when  I  came  hither.  A  Romish  priest  now 
would  have  escaped  all  this.  Oh,  Father  of  heaven !  how 
good  for  us  would  it  be,  if  thou  couldest  vouchsafe  to  us  a 
certain  rule." 

"And  have  we  not  a  certain  rule,  Mr.  Arabin  ?" 

"Yes — yes,  surely ;  'Lead  us  not  into  temptation  but  deliver 
us  from  evil.'  But  what  is  temptation  ?  what  is  evil  ?  Is 
this  evil, — is  this  temptation?" 

Poor  Mr.  Arabin !  It  would  not  come  out  of  him,  that 
deep  true  love  of  his.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  utter  it 
in  plain  language  that  would  require  and  demand  an  answer. 
He  knew  not  how  to  say  to  the  woman  by  his  side,  "Since 
the  fact  is  that  you  do  not  love  that  other  man,  that  you  are 
not  to  be  his  wife,  can  you  love  me,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 
These  were  the  words  which  were  in  his  heart,  but  with  all 
his  sighs  ■  he  could  not  draw  them  to  his  lips.     He  would 

295 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

have  given  anything,  everything  for  power  to  ask  this  simple 
question ;  but  glib  as  was  his  tongue  in  pulpits  and  on  plat- 
forms, now  he  could  not  find  a  word  wherewith  to  express 
the  plain  wish  of  his  heart. 

And  yet  Eleanor  understood  him  as  thoroughly  as  though 
he  had  declared  his  passion  with  all  the  elegant  fluency  of  a 
practised  Lothario.  With  a  woman's  instinct  she  followed 
every  bend  of  his  mind,  as  he  spoke  of  the  pleasantness  of 
Plumstead  and  the  stones  of  Oxford,  as  he  alluded  to  the 
safety  of  the  Romish  priest  and  the  hidden  perils  of  tempta- 
tion. She  knew  that  it  all  meant  love.  She  knew  that  this 
man  at  her  side,  this  accomplished  scholar,  this  practised 
orator,  this  great  polemical  combatant,  was  striving  and 
striving  in  vain  to  tell  her  that  his  heart  was  no  longer  his 
own. 

She  knew  this,  and  felt  a  sort  of  joy  in  knowing  it ;  and  yet 
she  would  not  come  to  his  aid.  He  had  offended  her  deeply, 
had  treated  her  unworthily,  the  more  unworthily  seeing  that 
he  had  learnt  to  love  her,  and  Eleanor  could  not  bring  herself 
to  abandon  her  revenge.  She  did  not  ask  herself  whether  or 
no  she  would  ultimately  accept  his  love.  She  did  not  even 
acknowledge  to  herself  that  she  now  perceived  it  with  pleas- 
ure. At  the  present  moment  it  did  not  touch  her  heart;  it 
merely  appeased  her  pride  and  flattered  her  vanity.  Mr. 
Arabin  had  dared  to  associate  her  name  with  that  of  Mr. 
Slope,  and  now  her  spirit  was  soothed  by  finding  that  he 
would  fain  associate  it  with  his  own.  And  so  she  walked 
on  beside  him  inhaling  incense,  but  giving  out  no  sweetness 
in  return. 

"Answer  me  this,"  said  Mr.  Arabin,  stopping  suddenly  in 
his  walk,  and  stepping  forward  so  that  he  faced  his  com- 
panion. "Answer  me  this  one  question.  You  do  not  love  Mr. 
Slope?  you  do  not  intend  to  be  his  wife?" 

Mr.  Arabin  certainly  did  not  go  the  right  way  to  win 
such  a  woman  as  Eleanor  Bold.  Just  as  her  wrath  was 
evaporating,  as  it  was  disappearing  before  the  true  warmth 
of  his  untold  love,  he  re-kindled  it  by  a  most  useless  repe- 
tition of  his  original  sin.  Had  he  known  what  he  was  about 
he  should  never  have  mentioned  Mr.  Slope's  name  before 
Eleanor  Bold,  till  he  had  made  her  all  his  own.     Then,  and 

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not  till  then,  he  might  have  talked  of  Mr.  Slope  with  as 
much  triumph  as  he  chose. 

"I  shall  answer  no  such  question,"  said  she;  "and  what  is 
more,  I  must  tell  you  that  nothing  can  justify  your  asking  it. 
Good  morning!" 

And  so  saying  she  stepped  proudly  across  the  lawn,  and 
passing  through  the  drawing-room  window  joined  her  father 
and  sister  at  lunch  in  the  dining-room.  Half  an  hour  after- 
wards she  was  in  the  carriage,  and  so  she  left  Plumstead 
without  again  seeing  Mr.  Arabin. 

His  walk  was  long  and  sad  among  the  sombre  trees  that 
overshadowed  the  churchyard.  He  left  the  archdeacon's 
grounds  that  he  might  escape  attention,  and  sauntered 
among  the  green  hillocks  under  which  lay  at  rest  so  many 
of  the  once  loving  swains  and  forgotten  beauties  of  Plum- 
stead.  To  his  ears  Eleanor's  last  words  sounded  like  a  knell 
never  to  be  reversed.  He  could  not  comprehend  that  she 
might  be  angry  with  him,  indignant  with  him,  remorseless 
with  him,  and  yet  love  him.  He  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  whether  or  no  Mr.  Slope  was  in  truth  a  favoured  rival. 
If  not,  why  should  she  not  have  answered  his  question? 

Poor  Mr.  Arabin — untaught,  illiterate,  boorish,  ignorant 
man !  That  at  forty  years  of  age  you  should  know  so  little 
of  the  workings  of  a  woman's  heart! 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    bishop's    library. 

AND  thus  the  pleasant  party  at  Plumstead  was  broken 
up.  It  had  been  a  very  pleasant  party  as  long  as 
they  had  all  remained  in  good  humour  with  one  another. 
Mrs.  Grantly  had  felt  her  house  to  be  gayer  and  brighter 
than  it  had  been  for  many  a  long  day,  and  the  archdeacon 
had  been  aware  that  the  month  had  passed  pleasantly  with- 
out attributing  the  pleasure  to  any  other  special  merits  than 
those  of  his  own  hospitality.  Within  three  or  four  days 
of  Eleanor's  departure  Mr.  Harding  had  also  returned,  and 
Mr.  Arabin  had  gone  to  Oxford  to  spend  one  week  there 

297 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

previous  to  his  settling  at  the  vicarage  of  St.  Ewold's.  He 
had  gone  laden  with  many  messages  to  Dr,  Gwynne  touching 
the  iniquity  of  the  doings  in  Barchester  palace,  and  the  peril 
in  which  it  was  believed  the  hospital  still  stood  in  spite  of 
the  assurances  contained  in  Mr.  Slope's  inauspicious  letter. 

During  Eleanor's  drive  into  Barchester  she  had  not  much 
opportunity  of  reflecting  on  Mr.  Arabin.  She  had  been 
constrained  to  divert  her  mind  both  from  his  sins  and  his 
love  by  the  necessity  of  conversing  with  her  sister  and  main- 
taining the  appearance  of  parting  with  her  on  good  terms. 
When  the  carriage  reached  her  own  door,  and  while  she  was 
in  the  act  of  giving  her  last  kiss  to  her  sister  and  nieces, 
Mary  Bold  ran  out  and  exclaimed, 

"Oh!  Eleanor, — have  you  heard? — oh!  Mrs.  Grantly, 
have  you  heard  what  has  happened  ?    The  poor  dean !" 

"Good  heavens !"  said  Mrs.  Grantly ;  "what — what  has 
happened  ?" 

"This  morning  at  nine  he  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  he 
has  not  spoken  since.  I  very  much  fear  that  by  this  time 
he  is  no  more." 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  very  intimate  with  the  dean,  and 
was  therefore  much  shocked.  Eleanor  had  not  known  him 
so  well ;  nevertheless  she  was  sufficiently  acquainted  with  his 
person  and  manners  to  feel  startled  and  grieved  also  at  the 
tidings  she  now  received.  "I  will  go  at  once  to  the  deanery," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly;  "the  archdeacon,  I  am  sure,  will  be  there. 
If  there  is  any  news  to  send  you  I  will  let  Thomas  call  be- 
fore he  leaves  town."  And  so  the  carriage  drove  ofif,  leav- 
ing Eleanor  and  her  baby  with  Mary  Bold. 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  quite  right.  The  archdeacon  was 
at  the  deanery.  He  had  come  into  Barchester  that  morn- 
ing by  himself,  not  caring  to  intrude  himself  upon  Eleanor, 
and  he  also  immediately  on  his  arrival  had  heard  of  the 
dean's  fit.  There  was,  as  we  have  before  said,  a  library  or 
reading  room  connecting  the  cathedral  with  the  dean's  house. 
This  was  generally  called  the  bishop's  library,  because  a 
certain  bishop  of  Barchester  was  supposed  to  have  added 
it  to  the  cathedral.  It  was  built  immediately  over  a  portion 
of  the  cloister,  and  a  flight  of  stairs  descended  from  it  into 
the  room  in  which  the  cathedral  clergymen  put  their  sur- 

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THE    BISHOP'S    LIBRARY. 

plices  on  and  off.  As  it  also  opened  directly  into  the  dean's 
house,  it  was  the  passage  through  which  that  dignitary 
usually  went  to  his  public  devotions.  Who  had  or  had  not 
the  right  of  entry  into  it,  it  might  be  difficult  to  say;  but 
the  people  of  Barchester  believed  that  it  belonged  to  the 
dean,  and  the  clergymen  of  Barchester  believed  that  it  be- 
longed to  the  chapter. 

On  the  morning  in  question  most  of  the  resident  clergy- 
men who  constituted  the  chapter,  and  some  few  others,  were 
here  assembled,  and  among  them,  as  usual  the  archdeacon 
towered  with  high  authority.  He  had  heard  of  the  dean's 
fit  before  he  was  over  the  bridge  which  led  into  the  town, 
and  had  at  once  come  to  the  well  known  clerical  trysting 
place.  He  had  been  there  by  eleven  o'clock,  and  had  re- 
mained ever  since.  From  time  to  time  the  medical  men  who 
had  been  called  in  came  through  from  the  deanery  into  the 
library,  uttered  little  bulletins,  and  then  returned.  There 
was,  it  appears,  very  little  hope  of  the  old  man's  rallying, 
indeed  no  hope  of  any  thing  like  a  final  recovery.  The  only 
question  was  whether  he  must  die  at  once  speechless,  un- 
conscious, stricken  to  death  by  his  first  heavy  fit ;  or  whether 
by  due  aid  of  medical  skill  he  might  not  be  so  far  brought 
back  to  this  world  as  to  become  conscious  of  his  state,  and 
enabled  to  address  one  prayer  to  his  Maker  before  he  was 
called  to  meet  Him  face  to  face  at  the  judgment  seat. 

Sir  Omicron  Pie  had  been  sent  for  from  London.  That 
great  man  had  shown  himself  a  wonderful  adept  at  keeping 
life  still  moving  within  an  old  man's  heart  in  the  case  of 
good  old  Bishop  Grantly,  and  it  might  be  reasonably  ex- 
pected that  he  would  be  equally  successful  with  a  dean.  In 
the  mean  time  Dr.  Fillgrave  and  Mr.  Rerechild  were  doing 
their  best ;  and  poor  Miss  Trefoil  sat  at  the  head  of  her 
father's  bed,  longing,  as  in  such  cases  daughters  do  long, 
to  be  allowed  to  do  something  to  show  her  love;  if  it  were 
only  to  chafe  his  feet  with  her  hands,  or  wait  in  menial  offices 
on  those  autocratic  doctors ;  anything  so  that  now  in  the 
time  of  need  she  might  be  of  use. 

The  archdeacon  alone  of  the  attendant  clergy  had  been 
admitted  for  a  moment  into  the  sick  man's  chamber.  He 
had  crept  in  with  creaking  shoes,  had  said  with  smothered 

299 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

voice  a  word  of  consolation  to  the  sorrowing  daughter,  had 
looked  on  the  distorted  face  of  his  old  friend  with  solemn 
but  yet  eager  scrutinising  eye,  as  though  he  said  in  his 
heart  "and  so  some  day  it  will  probably  be  with  me;"  and 
then  having  whispered  an  unmeaning  word  or  two  to 
the  doctors,  had  creaked  his  way  back  again  into  the 
library. 

"He'll  never  speak  again,  I  fear,"  said  the  archdeacon 
as  he  noiselessly  closed  the  door,  as  though  the  unconscious 
dying  man,  from  whom  all  sense  had  fled,  would  have  heard 
in  his  distant  chamber  the  spring  of  the  lock  which  was 
now  so  carefully  handled. 

"Indeed!  indeed!  is  he  so  bad?"  said  the  meagre  little 
prebendary,  turning  over  in  his  own  mind  all  the  probable 
candidates  for  the  deanery,  and  wondering  whether  the 
archdeacon  would  think  it  worth  his  while  to  accept  it.  "The 
fit  must  have  been  very  violent." 

"When  a  man  over  seventy  has  a  stroke  of  apoplexy, 
it  seldom  comes  very  lightly,"  said  the  burly  chancellor. 

"He  was  an  excellent,  sweet-tempered  man,"  said  one  of 
the  vicars  choral.  "Heaven  knows  how  we  shall  repair  his 
loss." 

"He  was  indeed,"  said  a  minor  canon ;  "and  a  great  bless- 
ing to  all  those  privileged  to  take  a  share  of  the  services 
of  our  cathedral.  I  suppose  the  government  will  appoint, 
Mr.  Archdeacon.     I  trust  we  may  have  no  stranger." 

"We  will  not  talk  about  his  successor,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, "while  there  is  yet  hope." 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  the  minor  canon.  "It  would 
be  exceedingly  indecorous  !  but " 

"I  know  of  no  man,"  said  the  meagre  little  prebendary, 
"who  has  better  interest  with  the  present  government  than 
Mr.  Slope." 

"Mr.  Slope !"  said  two  or  three  at  once  almost  sotto  voce. 
"Mr.  Slope  dean  of  Barchester!" 

"Pooh !"  exclaimed  the  burly  chancellor. 

"The  bishop  would  do  anything  for  him,"  said  the  little 
prebendary. 

"And  so  would  Mrs.  Proudie,"  said  the  vicar  choral. 

"Pooh !"  said  the  chancellor. 

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THE    BISHOP'S    LIBRARY. 

The  archdeacon  had  almost  turned  pale  at  the  idea.  What 
if  Mr.  Slope  should  become  dean  of  Barchester?  To  be 
sure  there  was  no  adequate  ground,  indeed  no  ground  at  all, 
for  presuming  that  such  a  desecration  could  even  be  con- 
templated. But  nevertheless  it  was  on  the  cards.  Dr. 
Proudie  had  interest  with  the  government,  and  the  man 
carried  as  it  were  Dr.  Proudie  in  his  pocket.  How  should 
they  all  conduct  themselves  if  Mr.  Slope  were  to  become 
dean  of  Barchester?  The  bare  idea  for  a  moment  struck 
even  Dr.  Grantly  dumb. 

"It  would  certainly  not  be  very  pleasant  for  us  to  have 
Mr,  Slope  at  the  deanery,"  said  the  little  prebendary,  chuck- 
ling inwardly  at  the  evident  consternation  which  his  surmise 
had  created. 

"About  as  pleasant  and  as  probable  as  having  you  in  the 
palace,"  said  the  chancellor. 

"I  should  think  such  an  appointment  highly  improbable," 
said  the  minor  canon,  "and,  moreover,  extremely  injudicious. 
Should  not  you,  Mr.  Archdeacon?" 

"I  should  presume  such  a  thing  to  be  quite  out  of  the 
question,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "but  at  the  present  moment 
I  am  thinking  rather  of  our  poor  friend  who  is  lying  so 
near  us  than  of  Mr.  Slope." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  vicar  choral  with  a  very 
solemn  air ;  "of  course  you  are.  So  are  we  all.  Poor  Dr. 
Trefoil ;  the  best  of  men,  but " 

"It's  the  most  comfortable  dean's  residence  in  England," 
said  a  second  prebendary.  "Fifteen  acres  in  the  grounds. 
It  is  better  than  many  of  the  bishop's  palaces." 

"And  full  two  thousand  a  year,"  said  the  meagre  doctor. 

"It  is  cut  down  to  1200/.,"  said  the  chancellor. 

"No,"  said  the  second  prebendary.  "It  is  to  be  fifteen.  A 
special  case  was  made." 

"No  sucji  thing,"  said  the  chancellor. 

"You'll  find  I'm  right,"  said  the  prebendary. 

"I'm  sure  I  read  it  in  the  report,"  said  the  minor  canon. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  chancellor.  "They  couldn't  do  it. 
There  were  to  be  no  exceptions  but  London  and  Durham." 

"And  Canterbury  and  York,"  said  the  vicar  choral, 
modestly. 

301 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"What  do  you  say,  Grantly?"  said  the  meagre  Uttle  doc- 
tor. 

"Say  about  what?"  said  the  archdeacon,  who  had  been 
looking  as  though  he  were  thinking  about  his  friend  the 
dean,  but  who  had  in  reality  been  thinking  about  Mr.  Slope. 

"What  is  the  next  dean  to  have,  twelve  or  fifteen?" 

"Twelve,"  said  the  archdeacon  authoritatively,  thereby 
putting  an  end  at  once  to  all  doubt  and  dispute  among  his 
subordinates  as  far  as  that  subject  was  concerned. 

"Well,  I  certainly  thought  it  was  fifteen,"  said  the  minor 
canon. 

"Pooh !"  said  the  burly  chancellor.  At  this  moment  the 
door  opened,  and  in  came  Dr.  Fillgrave. 

"How  is  he?"  "Is  he  conscious?"  "Can  he  speak?"  "I 
hope  not  dead?"  "No  worse  news,  doctor,  I  trust?"  "I 
hope,  I  trust,  something  better,  doctor?"  said  half  a  dozen 
voices  all  at  once,  each  in  a  tone  of  extremest  anxiety.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  how  popular  the  good  old  dean  was 
among  his  clergy. 

"No  change,  gentlemen;  not  the  slightest  change — but  a 
telegraphic  message  has  arrived — Sir  Omicron  Pie  will  be 
here  by  the  9.15  p.m.  train.  If  any  man  can  do  anything 
Sir  Omicron  Pie  will  do  it.  But  all  that  skill  can  do  has 
been  done." 

"We  are  sure  of  that,  Dr.  Fillgrave,"  said  the  archdeacon ; 
"we  are  quite  sure  of  that.     But  yet  you  know " 

"Oh !  quite  right,"  said  the  doctor,  "quite  right — I  should 
have  done  just  the  same — I  advised  it  at  once.  I  said  to 
Rerechild  at  once  that  with  such  a  life  and  such  a  man.  Sir 
Omicron  should  be  summoned — of  course  I  knew  expense 
was  nothing — so  distinguished,  you  know,  and  so  popular. 
Nevertheless,  all  that  human  skill  can  do  has  been  done." 

Just  at  this  period  Mrs.  Grantly's  carriage  drove  into  the 
close,  and  the  archdeacon  went  down  to  confirnv  the  news 
which  she  had  heard  before. 

By  the  9.15  p.m.  train  Sir  Omicron  Pie  did  arrive.  And 
in  the  course  of  the  nisrht  a  sort  of  consciousness  returned 
to  the  poor  old  dean.  Whether  this  was  due  to  Sir  Omicron 
Pie  is  a  question  on  which  it  may  be  well  not  to  oflfer  an 
opinion.    Dr.  Fillgrave  was  very  clear  in  his  own  mind,  but 

302 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

Sir  Omicron  himself  is  thought  to  have  differed  from  that 
learned  doctor.  At  any  rate  Sir  Omicron  expressed  an  opin- 
ion that  the  dean  had  yet  some  days  to  Hve. 

For  the  eight  or  ten  next  days,  accordingly,  the  poor  dean 
remained  in  the  same  state,  half  conscious  and  half  coma- 
tose, and  the  attendant  clergy  began  to  think  that  no  new 
appointment  would  be  necessary  for  some  few  months  to 
come. 


CHAPTER    XXXIL 

A    NEW    CANDIDATE    FOR    ECCLESIASTICAL    HONOURS. 

THE  dean's  illness  occasioned  much  mental  turmoil  in 
other  places  besides  the  deanery  and  adjoining  li- 
brary; and  the  idea  which  occurred  to  the  meagre  little  pre- 
bendary about  Mr.  Slope  did  not  occur  to  him  alone. 

The  bishop  was  sitting  listlessly  in  his  study  when  the 
news  reached  him  of  the  dean's  illness.  It  was  brought  to 
him  by  Mr.  Slope,  who  of  course  was  not  the  last  person  in 
Barchester  to  hear  it.  It  was  also  not  slow  in  finding  its  way 
to  Mrs.  Proudie's  ears.  It  may  be  presumed  that  there  was 
not  just  then  much  friendly  intercourse  between  these  two 
rival  claimants  for  his  lordship's  obedience.  Indeed,  though 
living  in  the  same  house,  they  had  not  met  since  the  stormy 
interview  between  them  in  the  bishop's  study  on  the  pre- 
ceding day. 

On  that  occasion  Mrs.  Proudie  had  been  defeated.  That 
the  prestige  of  continual  victory  should  have  been  torn  from 
her  standards  was  a  subject  of  great  sorrow  to  that  militant 
lady ;  but  though  defeated,  she  was  not  overcome.  She  felt 
that  she  might  yet  recover  her  lost  ground,  that  she  might 
yet  hurl  Mr.  Slope  down  to  the  dust  from  which  she  had 
picked  him,  and  force  her  sinning  lord  to  sue  for  pardon  in 
sackcloth  and  ashes. 

On  that  memorable  day,  memorable  for  his  mutiny  and 
rebellion  against  her  high  behests,  he  had  carried  his  way 
with  a  high  hand,  and  had  really  begun  to  think  it  possible 
that  the  days  of  his  slavery  were  counted.     He  had  begun 

303 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

to  hope  that  he  was  now  about  to  enter  into  a  free  land,  a 
land  delicious  with  milk  which  he  himself  might  quaff,  and 
honey  which  would  not  tantalise  him  by  being  only  honey 
to  the  eye.  When  Mrs.  Proudie  banged  the  door,  as  she 
left  his  room,  he  felt  himself  every  inch  a  bishop.  To  be 
sure  his  spirit  had  been  a  little  cowed  by  his  chaplain's  sub- 
sequent lecture;  but  on  the  whole  he  was  highly  pleased 
with  himself,  and  flattered  himself  that  the  worst  was  over. 
"Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coiite,"  he  reflected;  and 
now  that  the  first  step  had  been  so  magnanimously  taken,  all 
the  rest  would  follow  easily. 

He  met  his  wife  as  a  matter  of  course  at  dinner,  where 
little  or  nothing  was  said  that  could  ruffle  the  bishop's  hap- 
piness. His  daughters  and  the  servants  were  present  and 
protected  him. 

He  made  one  or  two  trifling  remarks  on  the  subject  of  his 
projected  visit  to  the  archbishop,  in  order  to  show  to  all  con- 
cerned that  he  intended  to  have  his  own  way ;  and  the  very 
servants  perceiving  the  change  transferred  a  little  of  their 
reverence  from  their  mistress  to  their  master.  All  which  the 
master  perceived;  and  so  also  did  the  mistress.  But  Mrs. 
Proudie  bided  her  time. 

After  dinner  he  returned  to  his  study  where  Mr.  Slope 
soon  found  him,  and  there  they  had  tea  together  and  planned 
many  things.  For  some  few  minutes  the  bishop  was  really 
happy ;  but  as  the  clock  on  the  chimney  piece  warned  him 
that  the  stilly  hours  of  night  were  drawing  on,  as  he  looked 
at  his  chamber  candlestick  and  knew  that  he  must  use  it,  his 
heart  sank  within  him  again.  He  was  as  a  ghost,  all  whose 
power  of  wandering  free  through  these  upper  regions  ceases 
at  cock-crow ;  or  rather  he  was  the  opposite  of  the  ghost,  for 
till  cock-crow  he  must  again  be  a  serf.  And  would  that  be 
all?  Could  he  trust  himself  to  come  down  to  breakfast  a 
free  man  in  the  morning. 

He  was  nearly  an  hour  later  than  usual,  when  he  betook 
himself  to  his  rest.  Rest !  what  rest  ?  However,  he  took 
a  couple  of  glasses  of  sherry,  and  mounted  the  stairs.  Far 
be  it  from  us  to  follow  him  thither.  There  are  some  things 
which  no  novelist,  no  historian,  should  attempt ;  some  few 
scenes  in  life's  drama  which  even  no  poet  should  dare  to 

304 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

paint.     Let  that  which  passed  between  Dr.  Proudie  and  his 
wife  on  this  night  be  understood  to  be  among  them. 

He  came  down  the  following  morning  a  sad  and  thought- 
ful man.  He  was  attenuated  in  appearance;  one  might  al- 
most say  emaciated.  I  doubt  whether  his  now  grizzled  locks 
had  not  palpably  become  more  grey  than  on  the  preceding 
evening.  At  an;^  rate  he  had  aged  materially.  Years  do 
not  make  a  man  old  gradually  and  at  an  even  pace.  Look 
through  the  world  and  see  if  this  is  not  so  always,  except 
in  those  rare  cases  in  which  the  human  being  lives  and  dies 
wdthout  joys  and  without  sorrows,  like  a  vegetable.  A  man 
shall  be  possessed  of  florid  vouthful  blooming  health  till,  it 
matters  not  what  age.  Thirty — forty — fifty,  then  comes 
some  nipping  frost,  some  period  of  agony,  that  robs  the  fibres 
of  the  body  of  their  succulence,  and  the  hale  and  hearty  man 
is  counted  among  the  old. 

He  came  down  and  breakfasted  alone;  Mrs.  Proudie  be- 
ing indisposed  took  her  coffee  In  her  bed-room,  and  her 
daughters  waited  upon  her  there.  He  ate  his  breakfast 
alone,  and  then,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  betook  him- 
self to  his  usual  seat  in  his  study.  He  tried  to  solace  him- 
self with  his  coming  visit  to  the  archbishop.  That  effort 
of  his  own  free  will  at  any  rate  remained  to  him  as  an  en- 
during triumph.  But  somehow,  now  that  he  had  achieved 
it,  he  did  not  seem  to  care  so  much  about  it.  It  was  his  am- 
bition that  had  prompted  him  to  take  his  place  at  the  archi- 
episcopal  table,  and  his  ambition  was  now  quite  dead  with- 
in him. 

He  was  thus  seated  when  Mr.  Slope  made  his  appearance, 
with  breathless  impatience. 

"My  lord,  the  dean  is  dead." 

"Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  the  bishop,  startled  out  of 
his  apathy  by  an  announcement  so  sad  and  so  sudden. 

"He  is  either  dead  or  now  dying.  He  has  had  an  apo- 
plectic fit,  and  I  am  told  that  there  is  not  the  slightest  hope ; 
indeed,  I  do  not  doubt  that  by  this  time  he  is  no  more." 

Bells  were  rung,  and  servants  were  immediately  sent  to 
inquire.  In  the  course  of  the  morning,  the  bishop,  leaning 
on  his  chaplain's  arm,  himself  called  at  the  deanery  door. 
Mrs.  Proudie  sent  to  Miss  Trefoil  all  manner  of  ofifers  of 

=="  305 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

assistance.  The  Miss  Proudies  sent  also,  and  there  was  im- 
mense sympathy  between  the  palace  and  the  deanery.  The 
answer  to  all  inquiries  was  unvaried.  The  dean  was  just 
the  same;  and  Sir  Omicron  Pie  was  expected  down  by  the 
9.15  P.M.  train. 

And  then  Mr.  Slope  began  to  meditate,  as  others  also  had 
done,  as  to  who  might  possibly  be  the  new  dean ;  and  it  oc- 
curred to  him,  as  it  had  also  occurred  to  others,  that  it  might 
be  possible  that  he  should  be  the  new  dean  himself.  And 
then  the  question  as  to  the  twelve  hundred,  or  fifteen  hun- 
dred, or  two  thousand,  ran  in  his  mind,  as  it  had  run  through 
those  of  the  other  clergymen  in  the  cathedral  library. 

Whether  it  might  be  two  thousand,  or  fifteen  or  twelve 
hundred,  it  would  in  any  case  undoubtedly  be  a  great  thing 
for  him,  if  he  could  get  it.  The  gratification  to  his  ambi- 
tion would  be  greater  even  than  that  of  his  covetousness. 
How  glorious  to  out-top  the  archdeacon  in  his  own  cathedral 
city;  to  sit  above  prebendaries  and  canons,  and  have  the 
cathedral  pulpit  and  all  the  cathedral  services  altogether  at 
his  own  disposal ! 

But  it  might  be  easier  to  wish  for  this  than  to  obtain  it. 
Mr.  Slope,  however,  was  not  without  some  means  of  for- 
warding his  views,  and  he  at  any  rate  did  not  let  the  grass 
grow  under  his  feet.  In  the  first  place  he  thought — and  not 
vainly — that  he  could  count  upon  what  assistance  the  bishop 
could  give  him.  He  immediately  changed  his  views  with 
regard  to  his  patron ;  he  made  up  his  mind  that  if  he  became 
dean,  he  would  hand  his  lordship  back  again  to  his  wife's 
vassalage ;  and  he  thought  it  possible  that  his  lordship  might 
not  be  sorry  to  rid  himself  of  one  of  his  mentors.  Mr.  Slope 
had  also  taken  some  steps  towards  making  his  name  known 
to  other  men  in  power.  There  was  a  certain  chief-commis- 
sioner of  national  schools  who  at  the  present  moment  was 
presumed  to  stand  especially  high  in  the  good  graces  of  the 
government  big  wigs,  and  with  him  Mr.  Slope  had  con- 
trived to  establish  a  sort  of  epistolary  intimacy.  He  thought 
that  he  might  safely  apply  to  Sir  Nicholas  Fitzwhiggin ; 
and  he  felt  sure  that  if  Sir  Nicholas  chose  to  exert  himself, 
the  promise  of  such  a  piece  of  preferment  would  be  had  for 
the  asking  for. 

306 


A    NEW   CANDIDATE. 

Then  he  also  had  the  press  at  his  bidding,  or  flattered  him- 
self that  he  had  so.  The  daily  Jupiter  had  taken  his  part 
in  a  very  thorough  manner  in  those  polemical  contests  of 
his  with  Mr.  Arabin;  he  had  on  more  than  one  occasion 
absolutely  had  an  interview  with  a  gentleman  on  the  staff 
of  that  paper,  who,  if  not  the  editor,  was  as  good  as  the 
editor ;  and  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  telling  let- 
ters on  all  manner  of  ecclesiastical  abuses,  which  he  signed 
with  his  initials,  and  sent  to  his  editorial  friend  with  private 
notes  signed  in  his  own  name.  Indeed,  he  and  Mr.  Towers 
— such  was  the  name  of  the  powerful  gentleman  of  the  press 
with  whom  he  was  connected — were  generally  very  amiable 
with  each  other.  Mr.  Slope's  little  productions  were  always 
printed  and  occasionally  commented  upon ;  and  thus,  in  a 
small  sort  of  way,  he  had  become  a  literary  celebrity.  This 
public  life  had  great  charms  for  him,  though  it  certainly 
also  had  its  drawbacks.  On  one  occasion,  when  speaking 
in  the  presence  of  reporters,  he  had  failed  to  uphold  and 
praise  and  swear  by  that  special  line  of  conduct  which  had 
been  upheld  and  praised  and  sworn  by  in  the  Jupiter,  and 
then  he  had  been  much  surprised  and  at  the  moment  not  a 
little  irritated  to  find  himself  lacerated  most  unmercifully  by 
his  old  ally.  He  was  quizzed  and  bespattered  and  made  a 
fool  of,  just  as  though,  or  rather  worse  than  if,  he  had  been 
a  constant  enemy  instead  of  a  constant  friend.  He  had 
hitherto  not  learnt  that  a  man  who  aspires  to  be  on  the  staff 
of  the  Jupiter  must  surrender  all  individuality.  But  ulti- 
mately this  little  castigation  had  broken  no  bones  between 
him  and  his  friend  Mr.  Towers.  Mr.  Slope  was  one  of  those 
who  understood  the  world  too  well  to  show  himself  angry 
with  such  a  potentate  as  the  Jupiter.  He  had  kissed  the  rod 
that  scourged  him,  and  now  thought  that  he  might  fairly 
look  for  his  reward.  He  determined  that  he  would  at  once 
let  Mr.  Towers  know  that  he  was  a  candidate  for  the  place 
which  was  about  to  become  vacant.  More  than  one  piece 
of  preferment  had  lately  been  given  away  much  in  accord- 
ance with  advice  tendered  to  the  government  in  the  columns 
of  the  Jupiter. 

But  it  was  incumbent  on  Mr.  Slope  first  to  secure  the 
bishop.    He  specially  felt  that  it  behoved  him  to  do  this  be- 

307 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

fore  the  visit  to  the  archbishop  was  made.  It  was  really 
quite  providential  that  the  dean  should  have  fallen  ill  just 
at  the  very  nick  of  time.  If  Dr.  Proudie  could  be  instigated 
to  take  the  matter  up  warmly,  he  might  manage  a  good  deal 
while  staying  at  the  archbishop's  palace.  Feeling  this  very 
strongly  Mr,  Slope  determined  to  sound  the  bishop  that  very 
afternoon.  He  was  to  start  on  the  following  morning  to 
London,  and  therefore  not  a  moment  could  be  lost  with 
safety. 

He  went  into  the  bishop's  study  about  five  o'clock,  and 
found  him  still  sitting  alone.  It  might  have  been  supposed 
that  he  had  hardly  moved  since  the  little  excitement  oc- 
casioned by  his  walk  to  the  dean's  door.  He  still  wore  on 
his  face  that  dull  dead  look  of  half  unconscious  suffering. 
He  was  doing  nothing,  reading  nothing,  thinking  of  nothing, 
but  simply  gazing  on  vacancy  when  Mr.  Slope  for  the  sec- 
ond time  that  day  entered  his  room. 

"Well,  Slope,"  said  he,  somewhat  impatiently ;  for,  to  tell 
the  truth,  he  was  not  anxious  just  at  present  to  have  much 
conversation  with  Mr.  Slope. 

"Your  lordship  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  as  yet  the  poor 
dean  has  shown  no  sign  of  amendment." 

"Oh — ah — hasn't  he?  Poor  man!  I'm  sure  I'm  very 
sorry.    I  suppose  Sir  Omicron  has  not  arrived  yet  ?" 

"No;  not  till  the  9.15  p.m.  train." 

"I  wonder  they  didn't  have  a  special.  They  say  Dr.  Tre- 
foil is  very  rich." 

"Very  rich,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "But  the  truth  is, 
all  the  doctors  in  London  can  do  no  good ;  no  other  good 
than  to  show  that  every  possible  care  has  been  taken.  Poor 
Dr.  Trefoil  is  not  long  for  this  world,  my  lord." 

"I  suppose  not — I  suppose  not." 

"Oh  no ;  indeed,  his  best  friends  could  not  wish  that  he 
should  outlive  such  a  shock,  for  his  intellects  cannot  possibly 
survive  it." 

"Poor  man !  poor  man !"  said  the  bishop. 

"It  will  naturally  be  a  matter  of  much  moment  to  your 
lordship  who  is  to  succeed  him,"  said  Mr.  Slope.  "It  would 
be  a  great  thing  if  you  could  secure  the  appointment  for 
some  persons  of  your  own  way  of  thinking  on  important 

308 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

points.  The  party  hostile  to  us  are  very  strong  here  in  Bar- 
chester — much  too  strong." 

"Yes,  yes.  If  poor  Dr.  Trefoil  is  to  go,  it  will  be  a  great 
thing  to  get  a  good  man  in  his  place." 

'Tt  will  be  everything  to  your  lordship  to  get  a  man  on 
whose  co-operation  you  can  reckon.  Only  think  what 
trouble  we  might  have  if  Dr.  Grantly,  or  Dr.  Hyandry,  or 
any  of  that  way  of  thinking,  were  to  get  it." 

"It  is  not  very  probable  that  Lord will  give  it  to  any 

of  that  school ;  why  should  he  ?" 

"No.  Not  probable ;  certainly  not ;  but  it's  possible.  Great 
interest  will  probably  be  made.  If  I  might  venture  to  ad- 
vise your  lordship,  I  would  suggest  that  you  should  discuss 
the  matter  with  his  grace  next  week.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  your  wishes,  if  made  known  and  backed  by  his  grace 
would  be  paramount  with  Lord  ." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that ;  Lord has  always  been  very 

kind  to  me,  very  kind.  But  I  am  unwilling  to  interfere  in 
such  matters  unless  asked.  And  indeed,  if  asked  I  don't 
know  whom,  at  this  moment,  I  should  recommend." 

Mr.  Slope,  even  Mr.  Slope,  felt  at  the  present  rather 
abashed.  He  hardly  knew  how  to  frame  his  little  request 
in  language  sufficiently  modest.  He  had  recognised  and 
acknowledged  to  himself  the  necessity  of  shocking  the  bishop 
in  the  first  instance  by  the  temerity  of  his  application,  and 
his  difficulty  was  how  best  to  remedy  that  by  his  adroitness 
and  eloquence.  "I  doubted  myself,"  said  he,  "whether  your 
lordship  would  have  any  one  immediately  in  your  eye,  and 
it  is  on  this  account  that  I  venture  to  submit  to  you  an  idea 
that  I  have  been  turning  over  in  my  own  mind.  If  poor 
Dr.  Trefoil  must  go,  I  really  do  not  see  why,  with  your  lord- 
ship's assistance,  I  should  not  hold  the  preferment  myself." 

"You !"  exclaimed  the  bishop,  in  a  manner  that  Mr.  Slope 
could  hardly  have  considered  complimentary. 

The  ice  was  now  broken,  and  Mr.  Slope  became  fluent 
enough.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  looking  for  it.  If  your 
lordship  will  press  the  matter  on  the  archbishop.  I  do  not 
doubt  but  I  shall  succeed.  You  see  I  shall  be  the  first  to 
move,  which  is  a  great  matter.  Then  I  can  count  upon 
assistance  from  the  public  press :  my  name  is  known,  I  may 

309 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

say,  somewhat  favourably  known  to  that  portion  of  the 
press  which  is  now  most  influential  with  the  government, 
and  I  have  friends  also  in  the  government.  But,  neverthe- 
less, it  is  to  you,  my  lord,  that  I  look  for  assistance.  It  is 
from  your  hands  that  I  would  most  willingly  receive  the 
benefit.  And,  which  should  ever  be  the  chief  consideration 
in  such  matters,  you  must  know  better  than  any  other  person 
whatsoever  what  qualifications  I  possess." 

The  bishop  sat  for  a  while  dumbfounded.  Mr.  Slope  dean 
of  Barchester !  The  idea  of  such  a  transformation  of  char- 
acter would  never  have  occurred  to  his  own  unaided  intel- 
lect. At  first  he  went  on  thinking  why,  for  what  reasons, 
on  what  account,  Mr.  Slope  should  be  dean  of  Barchester. 
But  by  degrees  the  direction  of  his  thoughts  changed,  and 
he  began  to  think  why,  for  what  reasons,  on  what  account, 
Mr.  Slope  should  not  be  dean  of  Barchester.  As  far  as  he 
himself,  the  bishop,  was  concerned,  he  could  well  spare  the 
services  of  his  chaplain.  That  little  idea  of  using  Mr.  Slope 
as  a  counterpoise  to  his  wife  had  well  nigh  evaporated.  He 
had  all  but  acknowledged  the  futility  of  the  scheme.  If 
indeed  he  could  have  slept  in  his  chaplain's  bed-room  instead 
of  his  wife's,  there  might  have  been  something  in  it.     But 

.    And  thus  as  Mr.  Slope  was  speaking,  the  bishop 

began  to  recognise  the  idea  that  that  gentleman  might  be- 
come dean  of  Barchester  without  impropriety ;  not  moved, 
indeed,  by  Mr.  Slope's  eloquence,  for  he  did  not  follow  the 
tenor  of  his  speech ;  but  led  thereto  by  his  own  cogitations. 

'T  need  not  say,"  continued  Mr.  Slope,  "that  it  would  be 
my  chief  desire  to  act  in  all  matters  connected  with  the 
cathedral  as  far  as  possible  in  accordance  with  your  views. 
I  know  your  lordship  so  well  (and  I  hope  you  know  me 
well  enough  to  have  the  same  feelings),  that  I  am  satisfied 
that  my  being  in  that  position  would  add  materially  to  your 
own  comfort,  and  enable  you  to  extend  the  sphere  of  your 
useful  influence.  As  I  said  before,  it  is  most  desirable  that 
there  should  be  but  one  opinion  among  the  dignitaries  of  the 
same  diocese.  I  doubt  much  whether  I  would  accept  such 
an  appointment  in  any  diocese  in  which  I  should  be  con- 
strained to  dififer  much  from  the  bishop.  In  this  case  there 
would  be  a  delightful  uniformity  of  opinion." 

310 


A   NEW    CANDIDATE. 

Mr.  Slope  perfectly  well  perceived  that  the  bishop  did 
not  follow  a  word  that  he  said,  but  nevertheless  he  went  on 
talking.  He  knew  it  was  necessary  that  Dr.  Proudie  should 
recover  from  his  surprise,  and  he  knew  also  that  he  must 
give  him  the  opportunity  of  appearing  to  have  been  per- 
suaded by  argument.  So  he  went  on,  and  produced  a  multi- 
tude of  fitting  reasons  all  tending  to  show  that  no  one  on 
earth  could  make  so  good  a  dean  of  Barchester  as  himself, 
that  the  government  and  the  public  would  assuredly  coincide 
in  desiring  that  he,  Mr.  Slope,  should  be  dean  of  Barchester ; 
but  that  for  high  considerations  of  ecclesiastical  polity  it 
would  be  especially  desirable  that  this  piece  of  preferment 
should  be  so  bestowed  through  the  instrumentality  of  the 
bishop  of  the  diocese. 

"But  I  really  don't  know  what  I  could  do  in  the  matter," 
said  the  bishop. 

"If  you  would  mention  it  to  the  archbishop;  if  you  could 
tell  his  grace  that  you  consider  such  an  appointment  very 
desirable,  that  you  have  it  much  at  heart  with  a  view  to  put- 
ting an  end  to  schism  in  the  diocese;  if  you  did  this  with 
your  usual  energy,  you  would  probably  find  no  difficulty  in 
inducing  his  grace  to  promise  that  he  would  mention  it  to 

Lord  .     Of  course  you  would  let  the  archbishop  know 

that  I  am  not  looking  for  the  preferment  solely  through  his 
intervention;  that  you  do  not  exactly  require  him  to  ask  it 
as  a  favour ;  that  you  expect  that  I  shall  get  it  through  other 
sources,  as  is  indeed  the  case ;  but  that  you  are  very  anxious 
that  his  grace  should  express  his  approval  of  such  an  ar- 
rangement to  Lord ." 

It  ended  in  the  bishop  promising  to  do  as  he  was  bid.  Not 
that  he  so  promised  without  a  stipulation.  "About  that 
hospital,"  he  said,  in  the  middle  of  the  conference.  "I  was 
never  so  troubled  in  my  life;"  which  was  about  the  truth. 
"You  haven't  spoken  to  Mr.  Harding  since  I  saw  you?" 

Mr.  Slope  assured  his  patron  that  he  had  not. 

"Ah  well,  then— I  think  upon  the  whole  it  will  be  better 
to  let  Quiverful  have  it.  It  has  been  half  promised  to  him. 
and  he  has  a  large  family  and  is  very  poor.  I  think  on  the 
whole  it  will  be  better  to  make  out  the  nomination  for  Mr. 
Quiverful." 

3" 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"But,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  still  thinking  that  he  was 
bound  to  make  a  fight  for  his  own  view  on  this  matter  and 
remembering  that  it  still  behoved  him  to  maintain  his  lately 
acquired  supremacy  over  Mrs.  Proudie,  lest  he  should  fail 
in  his  views  regarding  the  deanery, — "but,  my  lord,  I  am 
really  much  afraid " 

"Remember,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  the  bishop,  "I  can  hold  out 
no  sort  of  hope  to  you  in  this  matter  of  succeeding  poor  Dr. 
Trefoil.  I  will  certainly  speak  to  the  archbishop,  as  you 
wish  it,  but  I  cannot  think " 

"Well,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  fully  understanding  the 
bishop  and  in  his  turn  interrupting  him,  "perhaps  your  lord- 
ship is  right  about  Mr.  Quiverful.  I  have  no  doubt  I  can 
easily  arrange  matters  with  Mr.  Harding,  and  I  will  make 
out  the  nomination  for  your  signature  as  you  direct." 

"Yes,  Slope,  I  think  that  will  be  the  best ;  and  you  may  be 
sure  that  any  little  that  I  can  do  to  forward  your  views  shall 
be  done." 

And  so  they  parted. 

Mr.  Slope  had  now  much  business  on  his  hands.  He 
had  to  make  his  daily  visit  to  the  signora.  This  common 
prudence  should  have  now  induced  him  to  omit,  but  he  was 
infatuated ;  and  could  not  bring  himself  to  be  commonly 
prudent.  He  determined  therefore  that  he  would  drink  tea 
at  Stanhope's ;  and  he  determined  also,  or  thought  that  he 
determined,  that  having  done  so  he  would  go  thither  no 
more.  He  had  also  to  arrange  his  matters  with  Mrs.  Bold. 
He  was  of  opinion  that  Eleanor  would  grace  the  deanery 
as  perfectly  as  she  would  the  chaplain's  cottage ;  and  he 
thought,  moreover,  that  Eleanor's  fortune  would  excellently 
repair  any  dilapidations  and  curtailments  in  the  dean's  sti- 
pend which  might  have  been  made  by  that  ruthless  ecclesi- 
astical commission. 

Touching  Mrs.  Bold  his  hopes  now  soared  high.  Mr. 
Slope  was  one  of  that  numerous  multitude  of  swains  who 
think  that  all  is  fair  in  love,  and  he  had  accordingly  not  re- 
frained from  using  the  services  of  Mrs.  Bold's  own  maid. 
From  her  he  had  learnt  much  of  what  had  taken  place  at 
Plumstead  ;  not  exactly  with  truth,  for  "the  own  maid"  had 
not  been  able  to  divine  the  exact  truth,  but  with  some  sort 

312 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

of  similitude  to  it.  He  had  been  told  that  the  archdeacon 
and  Mrs.  Grantly  and  Mr.  Harding  and  Mr.  Arabin  had 
all  quarrelled  with  "missus"  for  having  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Slope;  that  "missus"  had  positively  refused  to 
give  the  letter  up ;  that  she  had  received  from  the  archdeacon 
the  option  of  giving  up  either  Mr,  Slope  and  his  letter,  or 
else  the  society  of  Plumstead  rectory ;  and  that  "missus" 
had  declared  with  much  indignation,  that  "she  didn't  care 
a  straw  for  the  society  of  Plumstead  rectory,"  and  that  she 
wouldn't  give  up  Mr.  Slope  for  any  of  them. 

Considering  the  source  from  whence  this  came,  it  was 
not  quite  so  untrue  as  might  have  been  expected.  It 
showed  pretty  plainly  what  had  been  the  nature  of  the  con- 
versation in  the  servants'  hall ;  and  coupled  as  it  was  with 
the  certainty  of  Eleanor's  sudden  return,  it  appeared  to  Mr. 
Slope  to  be  so  far  worthy  of  credit  as  to  justify  him  in 
thinking  that  the  fair  widow  would  in  all  human  probability 
accept  his  offer. 

All  this  work  was  therefore  to  be  done.  It  was  desirable 
he  thought  that  he  should  make  his  offer  before  it  was 
known  that  Mr.  Quiverful  was  finally  appointed  to  the 
hospital.  In  his  letter  to  Eleanor  he  had  plainly  declared 
that  Mr.  Harding  was  to  have  the  appointment.  It  would 
be  very  difficult  to  explain  this  away ;  and  were  he  to  write 
another  letter  to  Eleanor  telling  the  truth  and  throwing 
the  blame  on  the  bishop,  it  would  naturally  injure  him  in 
her  estimation.  He  determined  therefore  to  let  that  matter 
disclose  itself  as  it  would,  and  to  lose  no  time  in  throwing 
himself  at  her  feet. 

Then  he  had  to  solicit  the  assistance  of  Sir  Nicholas  Fitz- 
whiggin  and  Mr.  Towers,  and  he  went  directly  from  the 
bishop's  presence  to  compose  his  letters  to  those  gentlemen. 
As  Mr.  Slope  was  esteemed  an  adept  at  letter  writing,  they 
shall  be  given  in  full. 

"(Private.)  "Palace,  Barchester,  Sept.  185 — . 

"My  dear  Sir  Nicholas, — I  hope  that  the  intercourse 
which  has  been  between  us  will  preclude  you  from  regard- 
ing my  present  application  as  an  intrusion.  You  cannot  T 
imagine  have  yet  heard  that  poor  dear  old  Dr.  Trefoil  has  been 

313 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

seized  with  apoplexy.  It  is  a  subject  of  profound  grief  to 
every  one  in  Barchester,  for  he  has  always  been  an  excellent 
man — excellent  as  a  man  and  as  a  clergyman.  He  is,  how- 
ever, full  of  years,  and  his  life  could  not  under  circum- 
stances have  been  much  longer  spared.  You  may  probably 
have  known  him. 

"There  is,  it  appears,  no  probable  chance  of  his  recovery. 
Sir  Omicron  Pie  is,  I  believe,  at  present  with  him.  At  any 
rate  the  medical  men  here  have  declared  that  one  or  two 
days  more  must  limit  the  tether  of  his  mortal  coil.  I  sincere- 
ly trust  that  his  soul  may  wing  its  flight  to  that  haven 
where  it  may  for  ever  be  at  rest  and  for  ever  be  happy. 

"The  bishop  has  been  speaking  to  me  about  the  prefer- 
ment, and  he  is  anxious  that  it  should  be  conferred  on  me. 
I  confess  that  I  can  hardly  venture,  at  my  age,  to  look  for 
such  advancement;  but  I  am  so  far  encouraged  by  hi  i  lord- 
ship, that  I  believe  I  shall  be  induced  to  do  so.  His  lord- 
ship goes  to  to-morrow,  and  is  intent  on  mentioning 

the  subject  to  the  archbishop. 

"I  know  well  how  deservedly  great  is  your  weight  with 
the  present  government.  In  any  matter  touching  church 
preferment  you  would  of  course  be  listened  to.  Now  that 
the  matter  has  been  put  into  my  head,  I  am  of  course  anx- 
ious to  be  successful.  If  you  can  assist  me  by  your  good 
word,  you  will  confer  on  me  one  additional  favour. 

"I  had  better  add,  that  Lord cannot  as  yet  know  of 

this  piece  of  preferment  having  fallen  in,  or  rather  of  its 
certainty  of  falling  (for  poor  dear  Dr.  Trefoil  is  past  hope). 
Should  Lord  first  hear  it  from  you,  that  might  prob- 
ably be  thought  to  give  you  a  fair  claim  to  express  your 
opinion. 

"Of  course  our  grand  object  is,  that  we  should  all  be  of 
one  opinion  in  church  matters.  This  is  most  desirable  at 
Barchester ;  it  is  this  that  makes  our  good  bishop  so  anxious 
about  it.     You  may  probably  think  it  expedient  to  point  this 

out  to  Lord  if  it  shall  be  in  your  power  to  oblige  me 

by  mentioning  the  subject  to  his  lordship. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir  Nicholas, 
"Your  most  faithful  servant, 

"Obadiah  Slope." 
314 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

His  letter  to  Mr.  Towers  was  written  in  quite  a  different 
strain.  Mr.  Slope  conceived  that  he  completely  understood 
the  difference  in  character  and  position  of  the  two  men  whom 
he  addressed.  He  knew  that  for  such  a  man  as  Sir  Nicholas 
Fitzwhiggin  a  little  flummery  was  necessary,  and  that  it 
might  be  of  the  easy  everyday  description.  Accordingly 
his  letter  to  Sir  Nicholas  was  written  currente  calamo,  with 
very  little  trouble.  But  to  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Towers  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  write  a  letter  that  should  be  effective  and 
yet  not  offensive,  that  should  carry  its  point  without  un- 
due interference.  It  was  not  difficult  to  flatter  Dr.  Proudie 
or  Sir  Nicholas  Fitzwhiggin,  but  very  difficult  to  flatter  Mr. 
Towers  without  letting  the  flattery  declare  itself.  This, 
however,  had  to  be  done.  Moreover,  this  letter  must,  in 
appearance  at  least,  be  written  without  effort,  and  be  fluent, 
unconstrained,  and  demonstrative  of  no  doubt  or  fear  on  the 
part  of  the  writer.  Therefore  the  epistle  to  Mr.  Towers  was 
studied,  and  recopied,  and  elaborated  at  the  cost  of  so  many 
minutes,  that  Mr.  Slope  had  hardly  time  to  dress  himself 
and  reach  Dr.  Stanhope's  that  evening. 

When  despatched  it  ran  as  follows : — 

"(Private.)  "Barchester,  Sept.  185—." 

(He  purposely  omitted  any  allusion  to  the  "palace,"  think- 
ing that  Mr.  Towers  might  not  like  it.  A  great  man,  he 
remembered,  had  been  once  much  condemned  for  dating  a 
letter  from  Windsor  Castle.) 

"My  dear  Sir, — We  were  all  a  good  deal  shocked  here  this 
morning  by  hearing  that  poor  old  Dean  Trefoil  had  been 
stricken  with  apoplexy.  The  fit  took  him  about  9  a.m.  I  am 
writing  now  to  save  the  post,  and  he  is  still  alive,  but  past  all 
hope,  or  possibility  I  believe,  of  living.  Sir  Omicron  Pie  is 
here,  or  will  be  very  shortly;  but  all  that  even  Sir  Omicron 
can  do,  is  to  ratify  the  sentence  of  his  less  distinguished 
brethren  that  nothing  can  be  done.  Poor  Dr.  Trefoil's  race 
on  this  side  the  grave  is  run.  I  do  not  know  whether  you 
knew  him.  He  was  a  good,  quiet,  charitable  man,  of  the  old 
school  of  course,  as  any  clergyman  over  seventy  years  of  age 
must  necessarily  be, 

"But  I  do  not  write  merely  with  the  object  of  sending 

315 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

you  such  news  as  this :  doubtless  some  one  of  your  Mercuries 
will  have  seen  and  heard  and  reported  so  much ;  I  write,  as 
you  usually  do  yourself,  rather  with  a  view  to  the  future 
than  to  the  past. 

"Rumour  is  already  rife  here  as  to  Dr.  Trefoil's  successor, 
and  among  those  named  as  possible  future  deans  your 
humble  servant  is,  I  believe,  not  the  least  frequently  spoken 
of;  in  short,  I  am  looking  for  the  preferment.  You  may 
probably  know  that  since  Bishop  Proudie  came  to  this  dio- 
cese I  have  exerted  myself  here  a  good  deal ;  and  I  may  cer- 
tainly say  not  without  some  success.  He  and  I  are  nearly 
always  of  the  same  opinion  on  points  of  doctrine  as  well  as 
church  discipline,  and  therefore  I  have  had,  as  his  confiden- 
tial chaplain,  very  much  in  my  own  hands ;  but  I  confess  to 
you  that  I  have  a  higher  ambition  than  to  remain  the  chap- 
lain of  any  bishop. 

"There  are  no  positions  in  which  more  energy  is  now 
needed  than  those  of  our  deans.  The  whole  of  our  enor- 
mous cathedral  establishments  have  been  allowed  to  go  to 
sleep, — nay,  they  are  all  but  dead,  and  ready  for  the  sepul- 
chre !  And  yet  of  what  prodigious  moment  they  might  be 
made,  if,  as  was  intended,  they  were  so  managed  as  to  lead 
the  way  and  show  an  example  for  all  our  parochial  clergy! 

"The  bishop  here  is  most  anxious  for  my  success ;  indeed, 
he  goes  to-morrow  to  press  the  matter  on  the  archbishop.  I 
believe  also  I  may  count  on  the  support  of  at  least  one  most 
effective  member  of  the  government.  But  I  confess  that  the 
support  of  the  Jupiter,  if  I  be  thought  worthy  of  it,  would  be 
more  gratifying  to  me  than  any  other;  more  gratifying  if  by 
it  I  should  be  successful ;  and  more  gratifying  also,  if,  al- 
though so  supported,  I  should  be  unsuccessful. 

"The  time  has,  in  fact,  come  in  which  no  government  can 
venture  to  fill  up  the  high  places  of  the  Church  in  defiance 
of  the  public  press.  The  age  of  honourable  bishops  and 
noble  deans  has  gone  by ;  and  any  clergyman,  however  hum- 
bly born,  can  now  hope  for  success,  if  his  industry,  talent, 
and  character  be  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  manifest  opinion 
of  the  public  in  his  favour. 

"At  the  present  moment  we  all  feel  that  any  counsel  given 
in  such  matters  by  the  Jupiter  has  the  greatest  weight — is, 

316 


A    NEW    CANDIDATE. 

indeed,  generally  followed ;  and  we  feel  also — I  am  speaking 
of  clergymen  of  my  own  age  and  standing — that  it  should 
be  so.  There  can  be  no  patron  less  interested  than  the  Jupi- 
ter, and  none  that  more  thoroughly  understands  the  wants 
of  the  people. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  not  suspect  me  of  asking  from  you 
any  support  which  the  paper  with  which  you  are  connected 
cannot  conscientiously  give  me.  My  object  in  writing  is  to 
let  you  know  that  I  am  a  candidate  for  the  appointment.  It 
is  for  you  to  judge  whether  or  no  you  can  assist  my  views. 
I  should  not,  of  course,  have  written  to  you  on  such  a  mat- 
ter had  I  not  believed  (and  I  have  had  good  reason  so  to  be- 
lieve) that  the  Jupiter  approves  of  my  views  on  ecclesiasti- 
cal polity. 

"The  bishop  expresses  a  fear  that  I  may  be  considered  too 
young  for  such  a  station,  my  age  being  thirty-six.  I  cannot 
think  that  at  the  present  day  any  hesitation  need  be  felt  on 
such  a  point.  The  public  has  lost  its  love  for  antiquated 
servants.  If  a  man  will  ever  be  fit  to  do  good  work  he  will 
be  fit  at  thirty-six  years  of  age. 

"Believe  me  very  faithfully  yours, 

"Obadiah  Slope. 

"T.  Towers,  Esq., 

" Court, 

"Middle  Temple." 

Having  thus  exerted  himself,  Mr.  Slope  posted  his  letters, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  the  evening  at  the  feet  of  his 
mistress. 

Mr.  Slope  will  be  accused  of  deceit  in  his  mode  of  canvass- 
ing. It  will  be  said  that  he  lied  in  the  application  he  made 
to  each  of  his  three  patrons.  I  believe  it  must  be  owned  that 
he  did  so.  He  could  not  hesitate  on  account  of  his  youth, 
and  yet  be  quite  assured  that  he  was  not  too  young.  He 
could  not  count  chiefly  on  the  bishop's  support,  and  chiefly 
also  on  that  of  the  newspaper.  He  did  not  think  that  the 
bishop  was  going  to  to  press  the  matter  on  the  arch- 
bishop. It  must  be  owned  that  in  his  canvassing  Mr.  Slope 
was  as  false  as  he  well  could  be. 

Let  it,  however,  be  asked  of  those  who  are  conversant  with 
.     317 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

such  matters,  whether  he  was  more  false  than  men  usually 
are  on  such  occasions.  We  English  gentlemen  hate  the 
name  of  a  lie ;  but  how  often  do  we  find  public  men  who  be- 
lieve each  other's  words? 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

MRS.    PROUDIE    VICTRIX. 

THE  next  week  passed  over  at  Barchester  with  much 
apparent  tranquillity.  The  hearts,  however,  of  some 
of  the  inhabitants  were  not  so  tranquil  as  the  streets  of  the 
city.  The  poor  old  dean  still  continued  to  live,  just  as  Sir 
Omicron  Pie  had  prophesied  that  he  would  do,  much  to  the 
amazement,  and  some  thought  disgust,  of  Dr.  Fillgrave. 
The  bishop  still  remained  away.  He  had  stayed  a  day  or 
two  in  town,  and  had  also  remained  longer  at  the  arch- 
bishop's than  he  had  intended.  Mr.  Slope  had  as  yet  re- 
ceived no  line  in  answer  to  either  of  his  letters ;  but  he  had 
learnt  the  cause  of  this.  Sir  Nicholas  was  stalking  a  deer, 
or  attending  the  Queen,  in  the  Highlands ;  and  even  the  in- 
defatigable Mr.  Towers  had  stolen  an  autumn  holiday,  and 
had  made  one  of  the  yearly  tribe  who  now  ascend  Mont 
Blanc.  Mr.  Slope  learnt  that  he  was  not  expected  back  till 
the  last  day  of  September. 

Mrs.  Bold  was  thrown  much  with  the  Stanhopes,  of  whom 
she  became  fonder  and  fonder.  If  asked,  she  would  have 
said  that  Charlotte  Stanhope  was  her  especial  friend,  and  so 
she  would  have  thought.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  liked 
Bertie  nearly  as  well ;  she  had  no  more  idea  of  regarding  him 
as  a  lover  than  she  would  have  had  of  looking  at  a  big  tame 
dog  in  such  a  light.  Bertie  had  become  very  intimate  with 
her,  and  made  little  speeches  to  her,  and  said  little  things  of 
a  sort  very  different  from  the  speeches  and  sayings  of  other 
men.  But  then  this  was  almost  always  done  before  his  sis- 
ters ;  and  he,  with  his  long  silken  beard,  his  light  blue  eyes 
and  strange  dress,  was  so  unlike  other  men.  She  admitted 
him  to  a  kind  of  familiarity  which  she  had  never  known  with 
any  one  else,  and  of  which  she  by  no  means  understood  the 

318 


MRS.    PROUDIE    VICTRIX. 

danger.  She  blushed  once  at  finding  that  she  had  called  him 
Bertie,  and  on  the  same  day  only  barely  remembered  her  po- 
sition in  time  to  check  herself  from  playing  upon  him  some 
personal  practical  joke  to  which  she  was  instigated  by 
Charlotte. 

In  all  this  Eleanor  was  perfectly  innocent,  and  Bertie 
Stanhope  could  hardly  be  called  guilty.  But  every  famil- 
iarity into  which  Eleanor  was  entrapped  was  deliberately 
planned  by  his  sister.  She  knew  well  how  to  play  her  game, 
and  played  it  without  mercy ;  she  knew,  none  so  well,  what 
was  her  brother's  character,  and  she  would  have  handed  over 
to  him  the  young  widow,  and  the  young  widow's  money, 
and  the  money  of  the  widow's  child,  without  remorse.  With 
her  pretended  friendship  and  warm  cordiality,  she  strove  to 
connect  Eleanor  so  closely  with  her  brother  as  to  make  it  im- 
possible that  she  should  go  back  even  if  she  wished  it.  But 
Charlotte  Stanhope  knew  really  nothing  of  Eleanor's  char- 
acter ;  did  not  even  understand  that  there  were  such  char- 
acters. She  did  not  comprehend  that  a  young  and  pretty 
woman  could  be  playful  and  familiar  with  a  man  such  as 
Bertie  Stanhope,  and  yet  have  no  idea  in  her  head,  no  feel- 
ing in  her  heart,  that  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to  own 
to  all  the  world.  Charlotte  Stanhope  did  not  in  the  least 
conceive  that  her  new  friend  was  a  woman  whom  nothing 
could  entrap  into  an  inconsiderate  marriage,  whose  mind 
would  have  revolted  from  the  slightest  impropriety  had  she 
been  aware  that  any  impropriety  existed. 

Miss  Stanhope,  however,  had  tact  enough  to  make  herself 
and  her  father's  house  very  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Bold.  There 
was  with  them  all  an  absence  of  stiffness  and  formality 
which  was  peculiarly  agreeable  to  Eleanor  after  the  great 
dose  of  clerical  arrogance  which  she  had  lately  been  con- 
strained to  take.  She  played  chess  with  them,  walked  with 
them,  and  drank  tea  with  them ;  studied  or  pretended  to 
study  astronomy ;  assisted  them  in  writing  stories  in  rhyme, 
in  turning  prose  tragedy  into  comic  verse,  or  comic  stories 
into  would-be  tragic  poetry.  She  had  no  idea  before  that 
she  had  any  such  talents.  She  had  not  conceived  the  possi- 
bility of  her  doing  such  things  as  she  now  did.  She  found 
with  the  Stanhopes  new  amusements  and  employments,  new 

319 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

pursuits,  which  in  themselves  could  not  be  wrong,  and  which 
were  exceedingly  alluring. 

Is  it  not  a  pity  that  people  who  are  bright  and  clever 
should  so  often  be  exceedingly  improper?  and  that  those 
who  are  never  improper  should  so  often  be  dull  and  heavy? 
Now  Charlotte  Stanhope  was  always  bright,  and  never 
heavy :  but  then  her  propriety  was  doubtful. 

But  during  all  this  time  Eleanor  by  no  means  forgot  Mr. 
Arabin,  nor  did  she  forget  Mr.  Slope.  She  had  parted  from 
Mr.  Arabin  in  her  anger.  She  was  still  angry  at  what  she 
regarded  as  his  impertinent  interference ;  but  nevertheless 
she  looked  forward  to  meeting  him  again,  and  also  looked 
forward  to  forgiving  him.  The  words  that  Mr.  Arabin  had 
uttered  still  sounded  in  her  ears.  She  knew  that  if  not  in- 
tended for  a  declaration  of  love,  they  did  signify  that  he 
loved  her;  and  she  felt  also  that  if  he  ever  did  make  such  a 
declaration,  it  might  be  that  she  should  not  receive  it  un- 
kindly. She  was  still  angry  with  him,  very  angry  with  him ; 
so  angry  that  she  would  bite  her  lip  and  stamp  her  foot  as 
she  thought  of  what  he  had  said  and  done.  But  nevertheless 
she  yearned  to  let  him  know  that  he  was  forgiven ;  all  that 
she  required  was  that  he  should  own  that  he  had  sinned. 

She  was  to  meet  him  at  Ullathorne  on  the  last  day  of  the 
present  month.  Miss  Thorne  had  invited  all  the  country 
round  to  a  breakfast  on  the  lawn.  There  were  to  be  tents, 
and  archery,  and  dancing  for  the  ladies  on  the  lawn,  and  for 
the  swains  and  girls  in  the  paddock.  There  were  to  be  fid- 
dlers and  fifers,  races  for  the  boys,  poles  to  be  climbed, 
ditches  full  of  water  to  be  jumped  over,  horse-collars  to  be 
grinned  through  (this  latter  amusement  was  an  addition  of 
the  stewards,  and  not  arranged  by  Miss  Thorne  in  the  orig- 
inal programme),  and  every  game  to  be  played  which,  in  a 
long  course  of  reading,  Miss  Thorne  could  ascertain  to  have 
been  played  in  the  good  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Every- 
thing of  more  modern  growth  was  to  be  tabooed,  if  possible. 
On  one  subject  Miss  Thorne  was  very  unhappy.  She  had 
been  turning  in  her  mind  the  matter  of  a  bull-ring,  but  could 
not  succeed  in  making  anything  of  it.  She  would  not  for 
the  world  have  done,  or  allowed  to  be  done,  anything  that 
was  cruel;  as  to  the  promoting  the  torture  of  a  bull   for 

320 


MRS.    PROUDIE    VICTRIX. 

the  amusement  of  her  young  neighbours,  it  need  hardly  be 
said  that  Miss  Thorne  would  be  the  last  to  think  of  it.  And 
yet  there  was  something  so  charming  in  the  name.  A  bull- 
ring, however,  without  a  bull  would  only  be  a  memento  of 
the  decadence  of  the  times,  and  she  felt  herself  constrained 
to  abandon  the  idea.  Quintains,  however,  she  was  deter- 
mined to  have,  and  had  poles  and  swivels  and  bags  of  flour 
prepared  accordingly.  She  would  no  doubt  have  been  anx- 
ious for  something  small  in  the  way  of  a  tournament ;  but, 
as  she  said  to  her  brother,  that  had  been  tried,  and  the  age 
had  proved  itself  too  decidedly  inferior  to  its  fore-runners 
to  admit  of  such  a  pastime.  Mr.  Thorne  did  not  seem  to 
participate  much  in  her  regret,  feeling  perhaps  that  a  full 
suit  of  chain-armour  would  have  added  but  little  to  his  own 
personal  comfort. 

This  party  at  Ullathorne  had  been  planned  in  the  first 
place  as  a  sort  of  welcome  to  Mr.  Arabin  on  his  entrance 
into  St.  Ewold's  parsonage ;  an  intended  harvest-home  gala 
for  the  labourers  and  their  wives  and  children  had  subse- 
quently been  amalgamated  with  it,  and  thus  it  had  grown  to 
its  present  dimensions.  All  the  Plumstead  party  had  of 
course  been  asked,  and  at  the  time  of  the  invitation  Eleanor 
had  intended  to  have  gone  with  her  sister.  Now  her  plans 
were  altered,  and  she  was  going  with  the  Stanhopes.  The 
Proudies  were  also  to  be  there ;  and  as  Mr.  Slope  had  not 
been  included  in  the  invitation  to  the  palace,  the  signora, 
whose  impudence  never  deserted  her,  asked  permission  of 
Miss  Thorne  to  bring  him. 

This  permission  Miss  Thorne  gave,  having  no  other  alter- 
native ;  but  she  did  so  with  a  trembling  heart,  fearing  Mr. 
Arabin  would  be  offended.  Immediately  on  his  return  she 
apologised,  almost  with  tears,  so  dire  an  enmity  was  pre- 
sumed to  rage  between  the  two  gentlemen.  But  Mr.  Arabin 
comforted  her  by  an  assurance  that  he  should  meet  Mr. 
Slope  with  the  greatest  pleasure  imaginable,  and  made  her 
promise  that  she  would  introduce  them  to  each  other. 

But  this  triumph  of  Mr.  Slope's  was  not  so  agreeable  to 
Eleanor,  who  since  her  return  to  Barchester  had  done  her 
best  to  avoid  him.  She  would  not  give  way  to  the  Plum- 
stead  folk  when  they  so  ungenerously  accused  her  of  being 

81  321 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

in  love  with  this  odious  man ;  but,  nevertheless,  knowing  that 
she  was  so  accused,  she  was  fully  alive  to  the  expediency  of 
keeping  out  of  his  way  and  dropping  him  by  degrees.  She 
had  seen  very  little  of  him  since  her  return.  Her  servant 
had  been  instructed  to  say  to  all  visitors  that  she  was  out. 
She  could  not  bring  herself  to  specify  Mr.  Slope  particu- 
larly, and  in  order  to  avoid  him  she  had  thus  debarred  her- 
self from  all  her  friends.  She  had  excepted  Charlotte  Stan- 
hope, and  by  degrees  a  few  others  also.  Once  she  had  met 
him  at  the  Stanhopes' ;  but,  as  a  rule,  Mr.  Slope's  visits  there 
were  made  in  the  morning,  and  hers  in  the  evening.  On 
that  one  occasion  Charlotte  had  managed  to  preserve  her 
from  any  annoyance.  This  was  very  good-natured  on  the 
part  of  Charlotte,  as  Eleanor  thought,  and  also  very  sharp- 
witted,  as  Eleanor  had  told  her  friend  nothing  of  her  reasons 
for  wishing  to  avoid  that  gentleman.  The  fact,  however, 
was,  that  Charlotte  had  learnt  from  her  sister  that  Mr.  Slope 
would  probably  put  himself  forward  as  a  suitor  for  the  wid- 
ow's hand,  and  she  was  consequently  sufficiently  alive  to  the 
expediency  of  guarding  Bertie's  future  wife  from  any  dan- 
ger in  that  quarter. 

Nevertheless  the  Stanhopes  were  pledged  to  take  Mr. 
Slope  with  them  to  Ullathorne.  An  arrangement  was  there- 
fore necessarily  made,  which  was  very  disagreeable  to  Elea- 
nor. Dr.  Stanhope,  with  herself,  Charlotte,  and  Mr.  Slope, 
were  to  go  together,  and  Bertie  was  to  follow  with  his  sister 
Madeline.  It  was  clearly  visible  by  Eleanor's  face  that  this 
assortment  was  very  disagreeable  to  her ;  and  Charlotte,  who 
was  much  encouraged  thereby  in  her  own  little  plan,  made  a 
thousand  apologies. 

"I  see  you  don't  like  it,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "but  we  could 
not  manage  otherwise.  Bertie  would  give  his  eyes  to  go 
with  you,  but  Madeline  cannot  possibly  go  without  him.  Nor 
could  we  possibly  put  Mr.  Slope  and  Madeline  in  the  same 
carriage  without  any  one  else.  They'd  both  be  ruined  for- 
ever, you  know,  and  not  admitted  inside  Ullathorne  gates,  I 
should  imagine,  after  such  an  impropriety." 

"Of  course  that  wouldn't  do,"  said  Eleanor;  "but  couldn't 
I  go  in  the  carriage  with  the  signora  and  your 
brother?" 

322 


MRS.    PROUDIE   VICTRIX. 

"Impossible!"  said  Charlotte.  "When  she  is  there,  there 
is  only  room  for  two."  The  signora,  in  truth,  did  not  care 
to  do  her  travelling  in  the  presence  of  strangers. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Eleanor,  "you  are  all  so  kind,  Charlotte, 
and  so  good  to  me,  that  I  am  sure  you  won't  be  offended; 
but  I  think  I'll  not  go  at  all." 

"Not  go  at  all ! — what  nonsense — indeed  you  shall."  It 
had  been  absolutely  determined  in  family  council  that  Bertie 
should  propose  on  that  very  occasion. 

"Or  I  can  take  a  fly,"  said  Eleanor.  "You  know  I  am  not 
embarrassed  by  so  many  difficulties  as  you  young  ladies;  I 
can  go  alone." 

"Nonsense !  my  dear.  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing ;  after 
all  it  is  only  for  an  hour  or  so ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  you  dislike  so.  I  thought  you  and  Mr.  Slope 
were  great  friends.     What  is  it  you  dislike?" 

"Oh!  nothing  particular,"  said  Eleanor;  "only  I  thought  it 
would  be  a  family  party." 

"Of  course  it  would  be  much  nicer,  much  more  snug,  if 
Bertie  could  go  with  us.  It  is  he  that  is  badly  treated.  I 
can  assure  you  he  is  much  more  afraid  of  Mr.  Slope  than  you 
are.  But  you  see  Madeline  cannot  go  out  without  him, — 
and  she,  poor  creature,  goes  out  so  seldom !  I  am  sure  you 
don't  begrudge  her  this,  though  her  vagary  does  knock  about 
our  own  party  a  little." 

Of  course  Eleanor  made  a  thousand  protestations,  and 
uttered  a  thousand  hopes  that  Madeline  would  enjoy  herself. 
And  of  course  she  had  to  give  way,  and  undertake  to  go.  in 
the  carriage  with  Mr.  Slope.  In  fact,  she  was  driven  either 
to  do  this,  or  to  explain  why  she  would  not  do  so.  Now 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  explain  to  Charlotte  Stanhope 
all  that  had  passed  at  Plumstead. 

But  it  was  to  her  a  sore  necessity.  She  thought  of  a  thou- 
sand little  schemes  for  avoiding  it;  she  would  plead  illness, 
and  not  go  at  all ;  she  would  persuade  Mary  Bold  to  go  al- 
though not  asked,  and  then  make  a  necessity  of  having  a  car- 
riage of  her  own  to  take  her  sister-in-law ;  anything,  in  fact, 
she  could  do,  rather  than  be  seen  by  Mr.  Arat)in  getting  out 
of  the  same  carriage  with  Mr.  Slope.  However,  when  the 
momentous  morning  came  she  had  no  scheme  matured,  and 

323 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

then  Mr.  Slope  handed  her  into  Dr.  Stanhope's  carriage,  and 
following  her  steps,  sat  opposite  to  her. 

The  bishop  returned  on  the  eve  of  the  Ullathorne  party, 
and  was  received  at  home  with  radiant  smiles  by  the  partner 
of  all  his  cares.  On  his  arrival  he  crept  up  to  his  dressing- 
room  with  somewhat  of  a  palpitating  heart ;  he  had  over- 
stayed his  allotted  time  by  three  days,  and  was  not  without 
much  fear  of  penalties.  Nothing,  however,  could  be  more 
affectionately  cordial  than  the  greeting  he  received :  the  girls 
came  out  and  kissed  him  in  a  manner  that  was  quite  soothing 
to  his  spirit ;  and  Mrs.  Proudie,  "albeit,  unused  to  the  melt- 
ing mood,"  squeezed  him  in  her  arms,  and  almost  in  words 
called  him  her  dear,  darling,  good,  pet,  little  bishop.  All 
this  was  a  very  pleasant  surprise. 

Mrs.  Proudie  had  somewhat  changed  her  tactics ;  not  that 
she  had  seen  any  cause  to  disapprove  of  her  former  line  of 
conduct,  but  she  had  now  brought  matters  to  such  a  point 
that  she  calculated  that  she  might  safely  do  so.  She  had  got 
the  better  of  Mr.  Slope,  and  she  now  thought  well  to  show 
her  husband  that  when  allowed  to  get  the  better  of  every- 
body, when  obeyed  by  him  and  permitted  to  rule  over  others, 
she  would  take  care  that  he  should  have  his  reward.  Mr. 
Slope  had  not  a  chance  against  her ;  not  only  could  she  stun 
the  poor  bishop  by  her  midnight  anger,  but  she  could  as- 
suage and  soothe  him,  if  she  so  willed,  by  daily  indulgences. 
She  could  furnish  his  room  for  him,  turn  him  out  as  smart 
a  bishop  as  any  on  the  bench,  give  him  good  dinners,  warm 
fires,  and  an  easy  life;  all  this  she  would  do  if  he  would  but 
be  quietly  obedient.  But  if  not, !  To  speak  sooth,  how- 
ever, his  sufferings  on  that  dreadful  night  had  been  so  poig- 
nant, as  to  leave  him  little  spirit  for  further  rebellion. 

As  soon  as  he  had  dressed  himself  she  returned  to  his 

room.     "I  hope  you   enjoyed   yourself  at  ,"   said   she, 

seating  herself  on  one  side  of  the  fire  while  he  remained  in 
his  arm-chair  on  the  other,  stroking  the  calves  of  his  legs. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  had  a  fire  in  his  room  since  the 
summer,  and  it  pleased  him ;  for  the  good  bishop  loved  to  be 
warm  and  cozy.  Yes,  he  said,  he  had  enjoyed  himself  verv 
much.  Nothing  could  be  more  polite  than  the  archbishop ; 
and  Mrs.  Archbishop  had  been  equally  charming. 

324 


MRS.    PROUDIE   \1CTRIX. 

Mrs.  Proudie  was  delighted  to  hear  it ;  nothing,  she  de- 
clared, pleased  her  so  much  as  to  think 

"Her   bairn    respectit    like    the    lave." 

She  did  not  put  it  precisely  in  these  words,  but  what  she 
said  came  to  the  same  thing;  and  then,  having  petted  and 
fondled  her  little  man  sufficiently,  she  proceeded  to  busi- 
ness. 

"The  poor  dean  is  still  alive,"  said  she. 

"So  I  hear,  so  I  hear,"  said  the  bishop.  "I'll  go  to  the 
deanery  directly  after  breakfast*  to-morrow." 

"We  are  going  to  this  party  at  Ullathorne  to-morrow 
morning,  my  dear;  we  must  be  there  early,  you  know, — by 
twelve  o'clock  I  suppose." 

"Oh, — ah!"  said  the  bishop;  "then  I'll  certainly  call  the 
next  day." 

"Was  much  said  about  it  at ?"  asked  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"About  what?"  said  the  bishop. 

"Filling  up  the  dean's  place,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  As  she 
spoke  a  spark  of  the  wonted  fire  returned  to  her  eye,  and 
the  bishop  felt  himself  to  be  a  little  less  comfortable  than 
before. 

"Filling  up  the  dean's  place;  that  is,  if  the  dean  dies? — 
very  little,  my  dear.     It  was  mentioned,  just  mentioned." 

"And  what  did  you  say  about  it,  bishop?" 

"Why,  I  said  that  I  thought  that  if,  that  is,  should — should 

the  dean  die,  that  is,  I  said  I  thought "     As  he  went  on 

stammering  and  floundering,  he  saw  that  his  wife's  eye  was 
fixed  sternly  on  him.  Why  should  he  encounter  such  evil 
for  a  man  whom  he  loved  so  slightly  as  Mr.  Slope?  Why 
should  he  give  up  his  enjoyments  and  his  ease,  and  such 
dignity  as  might  be  allowed  to  him,  to  fight  a  losing  battle 
for  a  chaplain?  The  chaplain  after  all,  if  successful,  would 
be  as  great  a  tyrant  as  his  wife.  Why  fight  at  all?  why 
contend?  why  be  uneasy?  From  that  moment  he  deter- 
mined to  fling  Mr.  Slope  to  the  winds,  and  take  the  goods 
the  gods  provided. 

"I  am  told,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"that  Mr.  Slope  is  looking  to  be  the  new  dean." 

"Yes, — certainly,  I  believe  he  is,"  said  the  bishop. 

325 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"And  what  does  the  archbishop  say  about  that?"  asked 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

"Well,  my  dear,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  promised  Mr.  Slope  to 
speak  to  the  archbishop.  Mr.  Slope  spoke  to  me  about  it. 
It  is  very  arrogant  of  him,  I  must  say, — but  that  is  nothing 
to  me." 

"Arrogant!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "it  is  the  most  impudent 
piece  of  pretension  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life.  Mr.  Slope 
Dean  of  Barchester,  indeed !  And  what  did  you  do  in  the 
matter,  bishop?" 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  did  speak  to  the  archbishop." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "that  you 
are  going  to  make  yourself  ridiculous  by  lending  your  name 
to  such  a  preposterous  attempt  as  this?  Mr.  Slope  Dean  of 
Barchester,  indeed !"  And  she  tossed  her  head,  and  put  her 
arms  a-kimbo,  with  an  air  of  confident  defiance  that  made 
her  husband  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Slope  never  would  be  Dean 
of  Barchester.  In  truth,  Mrs.  Proudie  was  all  but  invincible ; 
had  she  married  Petruchio,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  that 
arch  wife-tamer  would  have  been  able  to  keep  her  legs  out 
of  those  garments  which  are  presumed  by  men  to  be  pecu- 
liarly unfitted  for  feminine  use. 

"It  is  preposterous,  my  dear." 

"Then  why  have  you  endeavoured  to  assist  him?" 

"Why, — my  dear,  I  haven't  assisted  him — much." 

"But  why  have  you  done  it  at  all?  why  have  you  mixed 
your  name  up  in  anything  so  ridiculous?  What  was  it  you 
did  say  to  the  archbishop?" 

"Why,  I  just  did  mention  it ;  I  just  did  say  that — that  in 
the  event  of  the  poor  dean's  death,  Mr.  Slope  would — 
would " 

"Would  what?" 

"I  forget  how  I  put  it, — would  take  it  if  he  could  get  it; 
something  of  that  sort.  I  didn't  sav  much  more  than 
that." 

"You  shouldn't  have  said  anything  at  all.  And  what  did 
the  archbishop  say?" 

"He  didn't  sav  anything;  he  just  bowed  and  rubbed  his 
hands.  Somebody  else  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  as  we 
were  discussing  the  new  parochial  universal  school  commit- 

326 


MRS.    PROUDIE   VICTRIX. 

tee,  the  matter  of  the  new  dean  dropped;  after  that  I  didn't 
think  it  wise  to  renew  it." 

"Renew  it !  I  am  very  sorry  you  ever  mentioned  it.  What 
will  the  archbishop  think  of  you?" 

"You  may  be  sure,  my  dear,  the  archbishop  thought  very 
little  about  it." 

"But  why  did  you  think  about  it,  bishop?  how  could  you 
think  of  making  such  a  creature  as  that  Dean  of  Barchester? 
— Dean  of  Barchester!  I  suppose  he'll  be  looking  for  a 
bishopric  some  of  these  days, — a  man  that  hardly  knows 
who  his  own  father  was;  a  man  that  I  found  without  bread 
to  his  mouth,  or  a  coat  to  his  back.  Dean  of  Barchester,  in- 
deed!     I'll  dean  him." 

Mrs.  Proudie  considered  herself  to  be  in  politics  a  pure 
Whig;  all  her  family  belonged  to  the  Whig  party.  Now, 
among  all  ranks  of  Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  (Mrs. 
Proudie  should,  I  think,  be  ranked  among  the  former,  on  the 
score  of  her  great  strength  of  mind),  no  one  is  so  hostile  to 
lowly  born  pretenders  to  high  station  as  the  pure  Wliig. 

The  bishop  thought  it  necessary  to  exculpate  himself. 
"Why,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "it  appeared  to  me  that  you  and 
Mr.  Slope  did  not  get  on  quite  so  well  as  you  used  to  do." 

"Get  on !"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  moving  her  foot  uneasily  on 
the  hearth-rug,  and  compressing  her  lips  in  a  manner  that 
betokened  much  danger  to  the  subject  of  their  discourse. 

"I  began  to  find  that  he  was  objectionable  to  you," — 
Mrs.  Proudie's  foot  worked  on  the  hearth-rug  with  great 
rapidity, — "and  that  you  would  be  more  comfortable  if  he 
was  out  of  the  palace," — Mrs.  Proudie  smiled,  as  a  hyena 
may  probably  smile  before  he  begins  his  laugh, — "and  there- 
fore I  thought  that  if  he  got  this  place,  and  so  ceased  to  be 
my  chaplain,  you  might  be  pleased  at  such  an  arrangement." 

And  then  the  hyena  laughed  out.  Pleased  at  such  an  ar- 
rangement !  pleased  at  having  her  enemy  converted  into  a 
dean  with  twelve  hundred  a  year!  Medea,  when  she  de- 
scribes the  customs  of  her  native  country  (I  am  quoting 
from  Robson's  edition),  assures  her  astonished  auditor  that 
in  her  land  captives,  when  taken,  are  eaten.  "You  pardon 
them?"  says  Medea.  "We  do  indeed,"  says  the  mild  Gre- 
cian.    "We  eat  them !"  says  she  of  Colchis,  with  terrific  en- 

327 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ergy.  Mrs.  Proudie  was  the  Medea  of  Barchester;  she  had 
no  idea  of  not  eating  Mr.  Slope.  Pardon  him !  merely  get 
rid  of  him !  make  a  dean  of  him !  It  was  not  so  they  did 
with  their  captives  in  her  country,  among  people  of  her  sort ! 
Mr.  Slope  had  no  such  mercy  to  expect;  she  would  pick  him 
to  the  very  last  bone. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  of  course  he'll  cease  to  be  your  chap- 
lain," said  she.  "After  what  has  passed,  that  must  be  a 
matter  of  course.  I  couldn't  for  a  moment  think  of  living  in 
the  same  house  with  such  a  man.  Besides,  he  has  shown 
himself  quite  unfit  for  such  a  situation ;  making  broils  and 
quarrels  among  the  clergy,  getting  you,  my  dear,  into 
scrapes,  and  taking  upon  himself  as  though  he  were  as  good 
as  bishop  himself.  Of  course  he'll  go.  But  because  he 
leaves  the  palace,  that  is  no  reason  why  he  should  get  into 
the  deanery." 

"Of  course  not!"  said  the  bishop;  "but  to  save  appear- 
ances you  know,  my  dear " 

"I  don't  want  to  save  appearances ;  I  want  Mr.  Slope  to 
appear  just  what  he  is — a  false,  designing,  mean,  intriguing 
man.  I  have  my  eye  on  him ;  he  little  knows  what  I  see. 
He  is  misconducting  himself  in  the  most  disgraceful  way 
with  that  lame  Italian  woman.  That  family  is  a  disgrace  to 
Barchester,  and  Mr.  Slope  is  a  disgrace  to  Barchester!  If 
he  doesn't  look  well  to  it,  he'll  have  his  gown  stripped  off 
his  back  instead  of  having  a  dean's  hat  on  his  head.  Dean, 
indeed !     The  man  has  gone  mad  with  arrogance." 

The  bishop  said  nothing  further  to  excuse  either  himself 
or  his  chaplain,  and  having  shown  himself  passive  and  docile 
was  again  taken  into  favour.  They  soon  went  to  dinner, 
and  he  spent  the  pleasantest  evening  he  had  had  in  his  own 
house  for  a  long  time.  His  daughter  played  and  sang  to 
him  as  he  sipped  his  coffee  and  read  his  newspaper,  and 
Mrs.  Proudie  asked  good-natured  little  questions  about  the 
archbishop;  and  then  he  went  happily  to  bed,  and  slept 
quietly  as  though  Mrs.  Proudie  had  been  Griselda  herself. 
While  shaving  himself  in  the  morning  and  preparing  for  the 
festivities  of  Ullathorne,  he  fully  resolved  to  run  no  more 
tilts  against  a  warrior  so  fully  armed  at  all  points  as  was 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

328 


THE  MASTER  AND  TUTOR  OF  LAZARUS. 
CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

OXFORD. — THE    MASTER    AND   TUTOR    OF    LAZARUS. 

MR.  ARABIN,  as  we  have  said,  had  but  a  sad  walk  of 
it  under  the  trees  of  Plumstead  churchyard.  He  did 
not  appear  to  any  of  the  family  till  dinner  time,  and  then  he 
seemed,  as  far  as  their  judgment  went,  to  be  quite  himself. 
He  had,  as  was  his  wont,  asked  himself  a  great  many  ques- 
tions, and  given  himself  a  great  many  answers ;  and  the  up- 
shot of  this  was  that  he  had  set  himself  down  for  an  ass. 
He  had  determined  that  he  was  much  too  old  and  much  too 
rusty  to  commence  the  manoeuvres  of  love-making;  that  he 
had  let  the  time  slip  through  his  hands  which  should  have 
been  used  for  such  purposes ;  and  that  now  he  must  lie  on 
his  bed  as  he  had  made  it.  Then  he  asked  himself  whether 
in  truth  he  did  love  this  woman ;  and  he  answered  himself, 
not  without  a  long  struggle,  but  at  last  honestly,  that  he  cer- 
tainly did  love  her.  He  then  asked  himself  whether  he  did 
not  also  love  her  money ;  and  he  again  answered  himself  that 
he  did  so.  But  here  he  did  not  answer  honestly.  It  was 
and  ever  had  been  his  weakness  to  look  for  impure  motives 
for  his  own  conduct.  No  doubt,  circumstanced  as  he  was, 
with  a  small  living  and  a  fellowship,  accustomed  as  he  had 
been  to  collegiate  luxuries  and  expensive  comforts,  he  might 
have  hesitated  to  marry  a  penniless  woman  had  he  felt  ever 
so  strong  a  predilection  for  the  woman  herself ;  no  doubt 
Eleanor's  fortune  put  all  such  difficulties  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  but  it  was  equally  without  doubt  that  his  love  for  her 
had  crept  upon  him  without  the  slightest  idea  on  his  part  that 
he  could  ever  benefit  his  own  condition  by  sharing  her  wealth. 
When  he  had  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  counting  the  pat- 
tern, and  counting  also  the  future  chances  of  his  own  life, 
the  remembrances  of  Mrs.  Bold's  comfortable  income  had 
not  certainly  damped  his  first  assured  feeling  of  love  for  her. 
And  why  should  it  have  done  so?  Need  it  have  done  so 
with  the  purest  of  men?  Be  that  as  it  may,  Mr.  Arabin  de- 
cided against  himself;  he  decided  that  it  had  done  so  in  his 
case,  and  that  he  was  not  the  purest  of  men. 

329 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

He  also  decided,  which  was  more  to  his  purpose,  that 
Eleanor  did  not  care  a  straw  for  him,  and  that  very  prob- 
ably she  did  care  a  straw  for  his  rival.  Then  he  made  up 
his  rnind  not  to  think  of  her  any  more,  and  went  on  thinking 
of  her  till  he  was  almost  in  a  state  to  drown  himself  in  the 
little  brook  which  ran  at  the  bottom  of  the  archdeacon's 
grounds. 

And  ever  and  again  his  mind  would  revert  to  the  Signora 
Neroni,  and  he  would  make  comparisons  between  her  and 
Eleanor  Bold,  not  always  in  favour  of  the  latter.  The  sig- 
nora had  listened  to  him,  and  flattered  him,  and  believed  in 
him ;  at  least  she  had  told  him  so.  Mrs.  Bold  had  also  lis- 
tened to  him,  but  had  never  flattered  him ;  had  not  always 
believed  in  him :  and  now  had  broken  from  him  in  violent 
rage.  The  signora,  too,  was  the  more  lovely  woman  of  the 
two,  and  had  also  the  additional  attraction  of  her  affliction; 
for  to  him  it  was  an  attraction. 

But  he  never  could  have  loved  the  Signora  Neroni  as  he 
felt  that  he  now  loved  Eleanor !  and  so  he  flung  stones  into 
the  brook,  instead  of  flinging  in  himself,  and  sat  down  on  its 
margin  as  sad  a  gentleman  as  you  shall  meet  in  a  summer's 
day. 

He  heard  the  dinner-bell  ring  from  the  churchyard,  and 
he  knew  that  it  was  time  to  recover  his  self-possession.  He 
felt  that  he  was  disgracing  himself  in  his  own  eyes,  that  he 
had  been  idling  his  time  and  neglecting  the  high  duties  which 
he  had  taken  upon  himself  to  perform.  He  should  have 
spent  this  afternoon  among  the  poor  at  St.  Ewold's,  instead 
of  wandering  about  at  Plumstead,  an  ancient  love-lorn  swain, 
dejected  and  sighing,  full  of  imaginary  sorrows  and  Werthe- 
rian  grief.  He  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself,  and  de- 
termined to  lose  no  time  in  retrieving  his  character,  so  dam- 
aged in  his  own  eyes.  Thus  when  he  appeared  at  dinner 
he  was  as  animated  as  ever,  and  was  the  author  of  most  of 
the  conversation  which  ijraced  the  archdeacon's  board  on 
that  evening.  Mr.  Harding  was  ill  at  ease  and  sick  at  heart, 
and  did  not  care  to  appear  more  comfortable  than  he  really 
was ;  what  little  he  did  say  was  said  to  his  daughter.  He 
thoueht  that  the  archdeacon  and  Mr.  Arabin  had  leagued 
together  against  Eleanor's  comfort ;  and  his  wish  now  was 

330 


THE  MASTER  AND  TUTOR  OF  LAZARUS. 

to  break  away  from  the  pair,  and  undergo  in  his  Barchester 
lodgings  whatever  Fate  had  in  store  for  him.  He  hated  the 
name  of  the  hospital ;  his  attempt  to  regain  his  lost  inheri- 
tance there  had  brought  upon  him  so  much  suffering.  As 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  Mr.  Quiverful  was  now  welcome 
to  the  place. 

And  the  archdeacon  was  not  very  lively.  The  poor  dean's 
illness  was  of  course  discussed  in  the  first  place.  Dr.  Grant- 
ly  did  not  mention  Mr.  Slope's  name  in  connexion  with  the 
expected  event  of  Dr.  Trefoil's  death;  he  did  not  wish  to  say 
anything  about  Mr.  Slope  just  at  present,  nor  did  he  wish  to 
make  known  his  sad  surmises ;  but  the  idea  that  his  enemy 
might  possibly  become  Dean  of  Barchester  made  him  very 
gloomy.  Should  such  an  event  take  place,  such  a  dire  catas- 
trophe come  about,  there  would  be  an  end  to  his  life  as  far 
as  his  life  was  connected  with  the  city  of  Barchester.  He 
must  give  up  all  his  old  haunts,  all  his  old  habits,  and  live 
quietly  as  a  retired  rector  at  Plumstead.  It  had  been  a  se- 
vere trial  for  him  to  have  Dr.  Proudie  in  the  palace ;  but 
with  Mr.  Slope  also  in  the  deanery,  he  felt  that  he  should 
be  unable  to  draw  his  breath  in  Barchester  close. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  in  spite  of  the  sorrow  at  his 
heart,  Mr.  Arabin  was  apparently  the  gayest  of  the  party. 
Both  Mr.  Harding  and  Mrs.  Grantly  were  in  a  slight  degree 
angry  with  him  on  account  of  his  want  of  gloom.  To  the 
one  it  appeared  as  though  he  were  triumphing  at  Eleanor's 
banishment,  and  to  the  other  that  he  was  not  affected  as 
he  should  have  been  by  all  the  sad  circumstances  of  the  day, 
Eleanor's  obstinacy,  Mr.  Slope's  success,  and  the  poor  dean's 
apoplexy.     And  so  they  were  all  at  cross  purposes. 

Mr.  Harding  left  the  room  almost  together  with  the  la- 
dies, and  then  the  archdeacon  opened  his  heart  to  Mr.  Ara- 
bin. He  still  harped  upon  the  hospital.  "What  did  that 
fellow  mean,"  said  he,  "by  saying  in  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Bold, 
that  if  Mr.  Harding  would  call  on  the  bishop  it  would  be 
all  right?  Of  course  I  would  not  be  guided  by  anything  he 
might  say ;  but  still  it  may  be  well  that  Mr.  Harding  should 
see  the  bishop.  It  would  be  foolish  to  let  the  thing  slip 
through  our  fingers  because  Mrs.  Bold  is  determined  to  make 
a  fool  of  herself." 

331 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Arabin  hinted  that  he  was  not  quite  so  sure  that  Mrs. 
Bold  would  make  a  fool  of  herself.  He  said  that  he  was  not 
convinced  that  she  did  regard  Mr.  Slope  so  warmly  as  she 
was  supposed  to  do.  The  archdeacon  questioned  and  cross- 
questioned  him  about  this,  but  elicited  nothing;  and  at  last 
remained  firm  in  his  own  conviction  that  he  was  destined, 
malgre  lui,  to  be  the  brother-in-iaw  of  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Ara- 
bin strongly  advised  that  Mr.  Harding  should  take  no  step 
regarding  the  hospital  in  connexion  with,  or  in  consequence 
of,  Mr.  Slope's  letter.  "If  the  bishop  really  means  to  confer 
the  appointment  on  Mr.  Harding,"  argued  Mr.  Arabin,  "he 
will  take  care  to  let  him  have  some  other  intimation  than  a 
message  conveyed  through  a  letter  to  a  lady.  Were  Mr. 
Harding  to  present  himself  at  the  palace  he  might  merely  be 
playing  Mr.  Slope's  game;"  and  thus  it  was  settled  that 
nothing  should  be  done  till  the  great  Dr.  Gwynne's  arrival, 
or   at   any   rate   without   that  potentate's   sanction. 

It  was  droll  to  observe  how  these  men  talked  of  Mr. 
Harding  as  though  he  were  a  puppet,  and  planned  their  in- 
trigues and  small  ecclesiastical  manoeuvres  in  reference  to 
Mr.  Harding's  future  position,  without  dreaming  of  taking 
him  into  their  confidence.  There  was  a  comfortable  house 
and  income  in  question,  and  it  was  very  desirable,  and  cer- 
tainly very  just,  that  Mr.  Harding  should  have  them;  but 
that,  at  present,  was  not  the  main  point ;  it  was  expedient  to 
beat  the  bishop,  and  if  possible  to  smash  Mr.  Slope.  Mr. 
Slope  had  set  up,  or  was  supposed  to  have  set  up,  a  rival 
candidate.  Of  all  things  the  most  desirable  would  have 
been  to  have  had  Mr.  Quiverful's  appointment  published  to 
the  public,  and  then  annulled  by  the  clamour  of  an  indignant 
world,  loud  in  the  defence  of  Mr.  Harding's  rights.  But  of 
such  an  event  the  chance  was  small ;  a  slight  fraction  only 
of  the  world  would  be  indignant,  and  that  fraction  would  be 
one  not  accustomed  to  loud  speaking.  And  then  the  prefer- 
ment had  in  a  sort  of  way  been  offered  to  Mr.  Harding,  and 
had  in  a  sort  of  way  been  refused  by  him. 

Mr.  Slope's  wicked,  cunning  hand  had  been  peculiarly  con- 
spicuous in  the  way  in  which  this  had  been  brought  to  pass, 
and  it  was  the  success  of  Mr.  Slope's  cunning  which  was  so 
painfully  grating  to  the  feelings  of  the  archdeacon.     That 

332 


THE  MASTER  AND  TUTOR  OF  LAZARUS. 

which  of  all  things  he  most  dreaded  was  that  he  should  be 
out-generalled  by  Mr.  Slope :  and  just  at  present  it  appeared 
probable  that  Mr.  Slope  would  turn  his  flank,  steal  a  march 
on  him,  cut  off  his  provisions,  carry  his  strong  town  by  a 
coup  de  main,  and  at  last  beat  him  thoroughly  in  a  regular 
pitched  battle.  The  archdeacon  felt  that  his  flank  had  been 
turned  when  desired  to  wait  on  Mr.  Slope  instead  of  the 
bishop,  that  a  march  had  been  stolen  when  Mr.  Harding  was 
induced  to  refuse  the  bishop's  offer,  that  his  provisions  would 
be  cut  off  when  Mr.  Quiverful  got  the  hospital,  that  Eleanor 
was  the  strong  town  doomed  to  be  taken,  and  that  Mr.  Slope, 
as  Dean  of  Barchester,  would  be  regarded  by  all  the  world 
as  the  conqueror  in  the  final  conflict. 

Dr.  Gwynne  was  the  Detis  ex  macJiind  who  was  to  come 
down  upon  the  Barchester  stage,  and  bring  about  deliverance 
from  these  terrible  evils.  But  how  can  melodramatic  de- 
nouements be  properly  brought  about,  how  can  vice  and  Mr. 
Slope  be  punished,  and  virtue  and  the  archdeacon  be  reward- 
ed, while  the  avenging  god  is  laid  up  with  the  gout?  In  the 
meantime  evil  may  be  triumphant,  and  poor  innocence,  trans- 
fixed to  the  earth  by  an  arrow  from  Dr.  Proudie's  quiver, 
may  lie  dead  upon  the  ground,  not  to  be  resuscitated  even  by 
Dr.  Gwynne. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Eleanor's  departure,  Mr.  Arabin 
went  to  Oxford,  and  soon  found  himself  closeted  with  the 
august  head  of  his  college.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Dr. 
Gwynne  was  not  very  sanguine  as  to  the  effects  of  his  jour- 
ney to  Barchester,  and  not  over  anxious  to  interfere  with 
the  bishop.  He  had  had  the  gout,  but  was  very  nearly  con- 
valescent, and  Mr.  Arabin  at  once  saw  that  had  the  mission 
been  one  of  which  the  master  thoroughly  approved,  he  would 
before  this  have  been  at  Plumstead. 

Ao  it  was,  Mr.  Gwynne  was  resolved  on  visiting  his  friend, 
and  willingly  promised  to  return  to  Barchester  with  Mr. 
Arabin.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that  there 
was  anv  probability  that  Mr.  Slope  would  be  made  Dean 
of  Barchester.  Rumour,  he  said,  had  reached,  even  his  ears, 
not  at  all  favourable  to  that  gentleman's  character,  and  he 
expressed  himself  strongly  of  opinion  that  any  such  appo'nt- 
ment  was  quite  out  of  the  question.     At  this  stage  of  the 

333 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

proceedings,  the  master's  right-hand  man,  Tom  Staple,  was 
called  in  to  assist  at  the  conference.  Tom  Staple  was  the 
Tutor  of  Lazarus,  and  moreover  a  great  man  at  Oxford, 
Though  universally  known  by  a  species  of  nomenclature  so 
very  undignified,  Tom  Staple  was  one  who  maintained  a  high 
dignity  in  the  University.  He  was,  as  it  were,  the  leader  of 
the  Oxford  tutors,  a  body  of  men  who  consider  themselves 
collectively  as  being  by  very  little,  if  at  all,  second  in  im- 
portance to  the  heads  themselves.  It  is  not  always  the  case 
that  the  master,  or  warden,  or  provost,  or  principal  can  hit  it 
ofif  exactly  with  his  tutor.  A  tutor  is  by  no  means  indis- 
posed to  have  a  will  of  his  own.  But  at  Lazarus  they  were 
great  friends  and  firm  allies  at  the  time  of  which  we  are 
writing. 

Tom  Staple  was  a  hale  strong  man  of  about  forty-five ; 
short  in  stature,  swarthy  in  face,  with  strong  sturdy  black 
hair,  and  crisp  black  beard,  of  which  very  little  was  allowed 
to  show  itself  in  shape  of  whiskers.  He  always  wore  a 
white  neckcloth,  clean  indeed,  but  not  tied  with  that  scrupu- 
lous care  which  now  distinguishes  some  of  our  younger 
clergy.  He  was,  of  course,  always  clothed  in  a  seemly  suit 
of  solemn  black.  Mr.  Staple  was  a  decent  cleanly  liver,  not 
over  addicted  to  any  sensuality ;  but  nevertheless  a  somewhat 
warmish  hue  was  beginning  to  adorn  his  nose,  the  peculiar 
effect,  as  his  friends  averred,  of  a  certain  pipe  of  port,  in- 
troduced into  the  cellars  of  Lazarus  the  very  same  year  in 
which  the  tutor  entered  it  as  a  freshman.  There  was  also, 
perhaps,  a  little  redolence  of  port  wine,  as  it  were  the  slight- 
est possible  twang,  in  Mr.  Staple's  voice. 

In  these  latter  days  Tom  Staple  was  not  a  happy  man ; 
L^niversity  reform  had  long  been  his  bugbear,  and  now  was 
his  bane.  It  was  not  with  him  as  with  most  others,  an  afifair 
of  politics,  respecting  which,  when  the  need  existed,  he  could, 
for  parties'  sake  or  on  behalf  of  principle,  maintain  a  certain 
amount  of  necessary  zeal;  it  was  not  with  him  a  subject  for 
dilettante  warfare,  and  courteous  common-place  opposition. 
To  him  it  was  life  and  death.  The  statti  quo  of  the  Univer- 
sity was  his  only  idea  of  life,  and  any  reformation  was  as 
bad  to  him  as  death.  He  would  willingly  have  been  a  mar- 
tyr in  the  cause,  had  the  cause  admitted  of  martyrdom. 

334 


THE  MASTER  AND  TUTOR  OF  LAZARUS. 

At  the  present  day,  unfortunately,  public  affairs  will  allow 
of  no  martyrs,  and  therefore  it  is  that  there  is  such  a  defi- 
ciency of  zeal.  Could  gentlemen  of  10,000/.  a  year  have  died 
on  their  own  doorsteps  in  defence  of  protection,  no  doubt 
some  half-dozen  glorious  old  baronets  would  have  so  fallen, 
and  the  school  of  protection  would  at  this  day  have  been 
crowded  with  scholars.  Who  can  fight  strenuously  in  any 
combat  in  which  there  is  no  danger?  Tom  Staple  would 
have  willingly  been  impaled  before  a  Committee  of  the 
House,  could  he  by  such  self-sacrifice  have  infused  his  own 
spirit  into  the  component  members  of  the  hebdomadal  board. 

Tom  Staple  was  one  of  those  who  in  his  heart  approved  of 
the  credit  system  which  had  of  old  been  in  vogue  between  the 
students  and  tradesmen  of  the  University.  He  knew  and 
acknowledged  to  himself  that  it  was  useless  in  these  degen- 
erate days  publicly  to  contend  with  the  Jupiter  on  such  a 
subject.  The  Jupiter  had  undertaken  to  rule  the  Univer- 
sity, and  Tom  Staple  was  well  aware  that  the  Jupiter  was 
too  powerful  for  him.  But  in  secret,  and  among  his  safe 
companions,  he  would  argue  that  the  system  of  credit  was 
an  ordeal  good  for  young  men  to  undergo. 

The  bad  men,  said  he,  the  weak  and  worthless,  blunder 
into  danger  and  burn  their  feet ;  but  the  good  men,  they  who 
have  any  character,  they  who  have  that  within  them  which 
can  reflect  credit  on  their  Alma  Mater,  they  come  through 
scatheless.  What  merit  will  there  be  to  a  young  man  to  get 
•  through  safely,  if  he  be  guarded  and  protected  and  restrained 
like  a  school-boy?  By  so  doing,  the  period  of  the  ordeal  is 
only  postponed,  and  the  manhood  of  the  man  will  be  deferred 
from  the  age  of  twenty  to  that  of  twenty-four.  If  you  bind 
him  with  leading-strings  at  college,  he  will  break  loose  while 
eating  for  the  bar  in  London ;  bind  him  there,  and  he  will 
break  loose  afterwards,  when  he  is  a  married  man.  The 
wild  oats  must  be  sown  somewhere.  'Twas  thus  that  Tom 
Staple  would  argue  of  young  men ;  not,  indeed,  with  much 
consistency,  but  still  with  some  practical  knowledge  of  the 
subject  gathered  from  long  experience. 

And  now  Tom  Staple  proffered  such  wisdom  as  he  had 
for  the  assistance  of  Dr.  Gwynne  and  Mr.  Arabin. 

"Quite  out  of  the  question,"  said  he,  arguing  that  Mr. 

335 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Slope  could  not  possibly  be  made  the  new  Dean  of  Bar- 
chester. 

"So  I  think,"  said  the  master.  "He  has  no  standing,  and, 
if  all  I  hear  be  true,  very  little  character." 

"As  to  character,"  said  Tom  Staple,  "I  don't  think  much 
of  that.  They  rather  like  loose  parsons  for  deans ;  a  little 
fast  living,  or  a  dash  of  infidelity,  is  no  bad  recommenda- 
tion to  a  cathedral  close.  But  they  couldn't  make  Mr.  Slope ; 
the  last  two  deans  have  been  Cambridge  men ;  you'll  not 
show  me  an  instance  of  their  making  three  men  running 
from  the  same  University.  We  don't  get  our  share,  and 
never  shall,  I  suppose;  but  we  must  at  least  have  one  out 
of  three." 

"Those  sort  of  rules  are  all  gone  by  now,"  said  Mr. 
Arabin. 

"Everything  has  gone  by,  I  believe,"  said  Tom  Staple. 
"The  cigar  has  been  smoked  out,  and  we  are  the  ashes." 

"Speak  for  yourself.  Staple,"  said  the  master. 

"I  speak  for  all,"  said  the  tutor,  stoutly.  "It  is  coming  to 
that,  that  there  will  be  no  life  left  anywhere  in  the  country. 
No  one  is  any  longer  fit  to  rule  himself,  or  those  belonging 
to  him.  The  Government  is  to  find  us  all  in  everything,  and 
the  press  is  to  find  the  Government.  Nevertheless,  Mr. 
Slope  won't  be  Dean  of  Barchester." 

"And  who  will  be  warden  of  the  hospital  ?"  said  Mr.  Ara- 
bin. 

"I  hear  that  Mr.  Quiverful  is  already  appointed,"  said 
Tom  Staple. 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  master.  "And  I  think,  moreover, 
that  Dr.  Proudie  will  not  be  so  short-sighted  as  to  run 
against  such  a  rock :  Mr.  Slope  should  himself  have  sense 
enough  to  prevent  it." 

"But  perhaps  Mr.  Slope  may  have  no  objection  to  see  his 
patron  on  a  rock,"  said  the  suspicious  tutor. 

"What  could  he  get  by  that?"  asked  Mr.  Arabin. 

"It  is  impossible  to  see  the  doubles  of  such  a  man,"  said 
Mr.  Staple.  "It  seems  quite  clear  that  Bishop  Proudie  is 
altogether  in  his  hands,  and  it  is  equally  clear  that  he  has 
been  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  get  this  Mr.  Quiverful  into 
the  hospital,  although  he  must  know  that  such  an  appoint- 

336 


MISS    THORNE'S    FETE    CHAMPETRE. 

ment  would  be  most  damaging  to  the  bishop.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  understand  such  a  man,  and  dreadful  to  think,"  add- 
ed Tom  Staple,  sighing  deeply,  "that  the  welfare  and  for- 
tunes of  good  men  may  depend  on  his  intrigues." 

Dr.  Gwynne  or  Mr.  Staple  were  not  in  the  least  aware,  nor 
even  was  Mr.  Arabin,  that  this  Mr.  Slope,  of  whom  they 
were  talking,  had  been  using  his  utmost  efforts  to  put  their 
own  candidate  into  the  hospital ;  and  that  in  lieu  of  being 
permanent  in  the  palace,  his  own  expulsion  therefrom  had 
been  already  decided  on  by  the  high  powers  of  the  diocese. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  tutor,  "if  this  Quiverful  is 
thrust  into  the  hospital  and  Dr.  Trefoil  does  die,  I  should 
not  wonder  if  the  Government  were  to  make  Mr.  Harding 
Dean  of  Barchester.  They  would  feel  bound  to  do  some- 
thing for  him  after  all  that  was  said  when  he  resigned." 

Dr.  Gwynne  at  the  moment  made  no  reply  to  this  sugges- 
tion; but  it  did  not  the  less  impress  itself  on  his  mind.  If 
Mr.  Harding  could  not  be  warden  of  the  hospital,  why 
should  he  not  be  Dean  of  Barchester? 

And  so  the  conference  ended  without  any  very  fixed  reso- 
lution, and  Dr.  Gwynne  and  Mr.  Arabin  prepared  for  their 
journey  to  Plumstead  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

MISS    THORNE's   fete     CHAMPETRE. 

THE  day  of  the  Ullathorne  party  arrived,  and  all  the 
world  were  there ;  or  at  least  so  much  of  the  world  as 
had  been  included  in  Miss  Thome's  invitation.  As  we  have 
said,  the  bishop  returned  home  on  the  previous  evening,  and 
on  the  same  evening,  and  by  the  same  train,  came  Dr. 
Gwynne  and  Mr,  Arabin  from  Oxford.  The  archdeacon 
with  his  brougham  was  in  waiting  for  the  Master  of  Lazarus, 
so  that  there  was  a  goodly  show  of  church  dignitaries  on  the 
platform  of  the  railway. 

The  Stanhope  party  was  finally  arranged  in  the  odious 
manner  already  described,  and  Eleanor  got  into  the  doctor's 
carriage   full  of  apprehension  and  presentiment  of  further 

"  337 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

misfortune,  whereas  Mr.  Slope  entered  the  vehicle  elate  with 
triumph. 

He  had  received  that  morning  a  very  civil  note  from  Sir 
Nicholas  Fitzwhiggin ;  not  promising  much  indeed ;  but  then 
Mr.  Slope  knew,  or  fancied  that  he  knew,  that  it  was  not 
etiquette  for  government  officers  to  make  promises.  Though 
Sir  Nicholas  promised  nothing  he  implied  a  good  deal ;  de- 
clared his  conviction  that  Mr.  Slope  would  make  an  excellent 
dean,  and  wished  him  every  kind  of  success.  To  be  sure  he 
added  that,  not  being  in  the  cabinet,  he  was  never  consulted 
on  such  matters,  and  that  even  if  he  spoke  on  the  subject 
his  voice  would  go  for  nothing.  But  all  this  Mr.  Slope  took 
for  the  prudent  reserve  of  official  life.  To  complete  his  an- 
ticipated triumphs,  another  letter  was  brought  to  him  just  as 
he  was  about  to  start  to  Ullathorne. 

Mr.  Slope  also  enjoyed  the  idea  of  handing  Mrs.  Bold  out 
of  Dr.  Stanhope's  carriage  before  the  multitude  at  Ulla- 
thorne gate,  as  much  as  Eleanor  dreaded  the  same  ceremony. 
He  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  throw  himself  and  his 
fortune  at  the  widow's  feet,  and  had  almost  determined  to 
select  the  present  propitious  morning  for  doing  so.  The 
signora  had  of  late  been  less  than  civil  to  him.  She  had  in- 
deed admitted  his  visits,  and  listened,  at  any  rate  without 
anger,  to  his  love;  but  she  had  tortured  him  and  reviled 
him,  jeered  at  him  and  ridiculed  him,  while  she  allowed  him 
to  call  her  the  most  beautiful  of  living  women,  to  kiss  her 
hand,  and  to  proclaim  himself  with  reiterated  oaths  her 
adorer,  her  slave,  and  worshipper. 

Miss  Thorne  was  in  great  perturbation,  yet  in  great  glory, 
on  the  morning  of  the  gala  day.  Mr,  Thorne  also,  though 
the  party  was  none  of  his  giving,  had  much  heavy  work  on 
his  hands.  But  perhaps  the  most  overtasked,  the  most  anx- 
ious, and  the  most  effective  of  all  the  Ullathorne  household 
was  Mr.  Plomacy,  the  steward.  This  last  personage  had,  in 
the  time  of  Mr.  Thome's  father,  when  the  Directory  held 
dominion  in  France,  gone  over  to  Paris  with  letters  in  his 
boot  heel  for  some  of  the  royal  partv ;  and  such  had  been 
his  good  luck  that  he  had  returned  safe.  He  had  then  been 
very  young  and  was  now  very  old,  but  the  exploit  gave  him 
a    character    for    political    enterprise    and    secret    discretion 

338 


MISS    THORNE'S    FETE    CHAMPETRE. 

which  still  availed  him  as  thoroughly  as  it  had  done  in  its 
freshest  gloss.  Mr.  Plomacy  had  been  steward  of  Ulla- 
thorne  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  a  very  easy  life  he  had 
had  of  it.  Who  could  require  much  absolute  work  from  a 
man  who  had  carried  safely  at  his  heel  that  which  if  discov- 
ered would  have  cost  him  his  head?  Consequently  Mr.  Plo- 
macy had  never  worked  hard,  and  of  latter  years  had  never 
worked  at  all.  He  had  a  taste  for  timber,  and  therefore 
he  marked  the  trees  that  were  to  be  cut  down ;  he  had  a 
taste  for  gardening,  and  would  therefore  allow  no  shrub  to 
be  planted  or  bed  to  be  made  without  his  express  sanction. 
In  these  matters  he  was  sometimes  driven  to  run  counter  to 
his  mistress,  but  he  rarely  allowed  his  mistress  to  carry  the 
point  against  him. 

But  on  occasions  such  as  the  present  Mr.  Plomacy  came 
out  strong.  He  had  the  honour  of  the  family  at  heart ;  he 
thoroughly  appreciated  the  duties  of  hospitality;  and  there- 
fore, when  gala  doings  were  going  on,  always  took  the  man- 
agement into  his  own  hands  and  reigned  supreme  over  mas- 
ter and  mistress. 

To  give  Mr.  Plomacy  his  due,  old  as  he  was,  he  thor- 
oughly understood  such  work  as  he  had  in  hand,  and  did 
it  well. 

The  order  of  the  day  was  to  be  as  follows.  The  quality, 
as  the  upper  classes  in  rural  districts  are  designated  by  the 
lower  with  so  much  true  discrimination,  were  to  eat  a  break- 
fast, and  the  non-quality  were  to  eat  a  dinner.  Two  mar- 
quees had  been  erected  for  these  two  banquets,  that  for  the 
quality  on  the  esoteric  or  garden  side  of  a  certain  deep  ha-ha ; 
and  that  for  the  non-quality  on  the  exoteric  or  paddock  side 
of  the  same.  Both  were  of  huge  dimensions ;  that  on  the 
outer  side  was,  one  may  say,  on  an  egregious  scale ;  but  Mr. 
Plomacy  declared  that  neither  would  be  sufficient.  To  rem- 
edy this,  an  auxiliary  banquet  was  prepared  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  a  subsidiary  board  was  to  be  spread  sub  dio  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  lower  class  of  yokels  on  the  Ulla- 
thorne  property. 

No  one  who  has  not  had  a  hand  in  the  preparation  of  such 
an  affair  can  understand  the  manifold  difficulties  which  Miss 
Thorne    encountered    in    her    project.     Had    she    not    been 

339 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

made  throughout  of  the  very  finest  whalebone,  riveted  with 
the  best  Yorkshire  steel,  she  must  have  sunk  under  them. 
Had  not  Mr.  Plomacy  felt  how  much  was  justly  expected 
from  a  man  who  at  one  time  carried  the  destinies  of  Europe 
in  his  boot,  he  would  have  given  way ;  and  his  mistress,  so 
deserted,  must  have  perished  among  her  poles  and  canvas. 

In  the  first  place  there  was  a  dreadful  line  to  be  drawn. 
Who  were  to  dispose  themselves  within  the  ha-ha,  and  who 
without?  To  this  the  unthinking  will  give  an  off-hand  an- 
swer, as  they  will  to  every  ponderous  question.  Oh,  the 
bishop  and  such  like  within  the  ha-ha;  and  Farmer  Green- 
acre  and  such  like  without.  True,  my  unthinking  friend ; 
but  who  shall  define  these  such-likes?  It  is  in  such  defini- 
tions that  the  whole  difficulty  of  society  consists.  To  seat 
the  bishop  on  an  arm  chair  on  the  lawn  and  place  Farmer 
Greenacre  at  the  end  of  a  long  table  in  the  paddock  is  easy 
enough ;  but  where  will  you  put  Mrs.  Lookaloft,  whose  hus- 
band, though  a  tenant  on  the  estate,  hunts  in  a  red  coat, 
whose  daughters  go  to  a  fashionable  seminary  in  Barches- 
ter,  who  calls  her  farm  house  Rosebank,  and  who  has  a 
pianoforte  in  her  drawing-room?  The  Misses  Lookaloft,  as 
they  call  themselves,  won't  sit  contented  among  the  bump- 
kins. Mrs.  Lookaloft  won't  squeeze  her  fine  clothes  on  a 
bench  and  talk  familiarly  about  cream  and  ducklings  to  good 
Mrs.  Greenacre.  And  yet  Mrs.  Lookaloft  is  no  fit  com- 
panion and  never  has  been  the  associate  of  the  Thornes  and 
the  Grantlys.  And  if  Mrs.  Lookaloft  be  admitted  within 
the  sanctum  of  fashionable  life,  if  she  be  allowed  with  her 
three  daughters  to  leap  the  ha-ha,  why  not  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  other  families  also?  Mrs.  Greenacre  is  at 
present  well  contented  with  the  paddock,  but  she  might  cease 
to  be  so  if  she  saw  Mrs.  Lookaloft  on  the  lawn.  And  thus 
poor  Miss  Thorne  had  a  hard  time  of  it. 

And  how  was  she  to  divide  her  guests  between  the  mar- 
quee and  the  parlour  ?  She  had  a  countess  coming,  an  Hon- 
ourable John  and  an  Honourable  George,  and  a  whole  bevy 
of  Ladies  Amelia,  Rosina,  Margaretta,  &c. ;  she  had  a  leash 
of  baronets  with  their  baronettes ;  and,  as  we  all  know,  she 
had  a  bishop.  If  she  put  them  on  the  lawn,  no  one  would 
go  into  the  parlour ;  if  she  put  them  into  the  parlour,  no  one 

340 


MISS    THORNE'S    FETE    CHAMPETRE. 

would  go  into  the  tent.  She  thought  of  keeping  the  old 
people  in  the  house,  and  leaving  the  lawn  to  the  lovers.  She 
might  as  well  have  seated  herself  at  once  in  a  hornet's  nest. 
Mr.  Plomacy  knew  better  than  this.  "Bless  your  soul, 
Ma'am,"  said  he,  "there  won't  be  no  old  ladies;  not  one, 
barring  yourself  and  old  Mrs.  Clantantram." 

Personally  Miss  Thorne  accepted  this  distinction  in  her  fa- 
vour as  a  compliment  to  her  good  sense ;  but  nevertheless  she 
had  no  desire  to  be  closeted  on  the  coming  occasion  with 
Mrs.  Clantantram.  She  gave  up  all  idea  of  any  arbitrary 
division  of  her  guests,  and  determined  if  possible  to  put  the 
bishop  on  the  lawn  and  the  countess  in  the  house,  to  sprinkle 
the  baronets,  and  thus  divide  the  attractions.  What  to  do 
with  the  Lookalofts  even  Mr.  Plomacy  could  not  decide. 
They  must  take  their  chance.  They  had  been  specially  told 
in  the  invitation  that  all  the  tenants  had  been  invited ;  and 
they  might  probably  have  the  good  sense  to  stay,  away  if 
they  objected  to  mix  with  the  rest  of  the  tenantry. 

Then  Mr.  Plomacy  declared  his  apprehension  that  the 
Honourable  Johns  and  Honourable  Georges  would  come  in  a 
sort  of  amphibious  costume,  half  morning  half  evening,  satin 
neckhandkerchiefs,  frock  coats,  primrose  gloves,  and  pol- 
ished boots ;  and  that,  being  so  dressed,  they  would  decline 
riding  at  the  quintain,  or  taking  part  in  any  of  the  athletic 
games  which  Miss  Thorne  had  prepared  with  so  much  fond 
care.  If  the  Lord  Johns  and  Lord  Georges  didn't  ride  at 
the  quintain,  Miss  Thorne  might  be  sure  that  nobody  else 
would. 

"But,"  said  she,  in  dolorous  voice,  all  but  overcome  by  her 
cares;  "it  was  specially  signified  that  there  were  to  be 
sports." 

"And  so  there  will  be,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Plomacy. 
"They'll  all  be  sporting  with  the  young  ladies  in  the  laurel 
walks.  Them's  the  sports  they  care  most  about  now-a-days. 
If  you  gets  the  young  men  at  the  quintain,  you'll  have  all 
the  young  women  in  the  pouts." 

"Can't  they  look  on,  as  their  great  grandmothers  did  be- 
fore them?"  said  Miss  Thorne. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  ladies  ain't  contented  with  look- 
ing now-a-days.     Whatever  the  men  do  they'll  do.     If  you'll 

341 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

have  side  saddles  on  the  nags,  and  let  them  go  at  the  quin- 
tain too,  it'll  answer  capital,  no  doubt." 

Miss  Thorne  made  no  reply.  She  felt  that  she  had  no 
good  ground  on  which  to  defend  her  sex  of  the  present  gen- 
eration from  the  sarcasm  of  Mr.  Plomacy.  She  had  once 
declared,  in  one  of  her  warmer  moments,  "that  now-a-days 
the  gentlemen  were  all  women,  and  the  ladies  all  men."  She 
could  not  alter  the  debased  character  of  the  age.  But,  such 
being  the  case,  why  should  she  take  on  herself  to  cater  for 
the  amusement  of  people  of  such  degraded  tastes?  This 
question  she  asked  herself  more  than  once,  and  she  could 
only  answer  herself  with  a  sigh.  There  was  her  own  broth- 
er Wilfred,  on  whose  shoulders  rested  all  the  ancient  hon- 
ours of  Ullathorne  house;  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  even 
he  would  consent  to  "go  at  the  quintain,"  as  Mr.  Plomacy 
not  injudiciously  expressed  it. 

And  now  the  morning  arrived.  The  Ullathorne  household 
was  early  on  the  move.  Cooks  were  cooking  in  the  kitchen 
long  before  daylight,  and  men  were  dragging  out  tables  and 
hammering  red  baize  on  to  benches  at  the  earliest  dawn. 
With  what  dread  eagerness  did  Miss  Thorne  look  out  at  the 
weather  as  soon  as  the  parting  veil  of  night  permitted  her  to 
look  at  all !  In  this  respect  at  any  rate  there  was  nothing 
to  grieve  her.  The  glass  had  been  rising  for  the  last  three 
days,  and  the  morning  broke  with  that  dull  chill  steady  grey 
haze  which  in  autumn  generally  presages  a  clear  and  dry 
day.  By  seven  she  was  dressed  and  down.  Miss  Thorne 
knew  nothing  of  the  modern  luxury  of  dcshahiUes.  She 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  appearing  before  her  brother 
without  her  stockings  as  without  her  stays ;  and  Miss 
Thome's  stays  were  no  trifle. 

And  yet  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  when  down.  She 
fidgeted  out  to  the  lawn,  and  then  back  into  the  kitchen.  She 
put  on  her  high-heeled  clogs,  and  fidgeted  out  into  the  pad- 
dock. Then  she  went  into  the  small  home  park  where  the 
quintain  was  erected.  The  pole  and  cross  bar  and  the 
swivel,  and  the  target  and  the  bag  of  flour  were  all  complete. 
•She  got  up  on  a  carpenter's  bench  and  touched  the  target 
with  her  hand ;  it  went  round  with  beautiful  ease ;  the  swivel 
had  been  oiled  to  perfection.     She  almost  wished  to  take  old 

342 


MISS    THORNE'S    FETE    CHAMPETRE. 

Plomacy  at  his  word,  to  get  on  a  side  saddle  and  have  a  tilt 
at  it  herself.  What  must  a  young  man  be,  thought  she,  who 
could  prefer  maundering  among  laurel  trees  with  a  wishy- 
washy  school  girl  to  such  fun  as  this  ?  "Well,"  said  she 
aloud  to  herself,  "one  man  can  take  a  horse  to  water,  but  a 
thousand  can't  make  him  drink.  There  it  is.  If  they  haven't 
the  spirit  to  enjoy  it,  the  fault  shan't  be  mine;"  and  so  she 
returned  to  the  house. 

At  a  little  after  eight  her  brother  came  down,  and  they  had 
a  sort  of  scrap  breakfast  in  his  study.  The  tea  was  made 
without  the  customary  urn,  and  they  dispensed  with  the 
usual  rolls  and  toast.  Eggs  also  were  missing,  for  every 
egg  in  the  parish  had  been  whipped  into  custards,  baked  into 
pies,  or  boiled  into  lobster  salad.  The  allowance  of  fresh 
butter  was  short,  and  Mr.  Thorne  was  obliged  to  eat  the 
leg  of  a  fowl  without  having  it  deviled  in  the  manner  he 
loved, 

"I  have  been  looking  at  the  quintain,  Wilfred,"  said  she, 
"and  it  appears  to  be  quite  right." 

"Oh, — ah ;  yes ;"  said  he.  "It  seemed  to  be  so  yesterday 
when  I  saw  it."  Mr.  Thorne  was  beginning  to  be  rather 
bored  by  his  sister's  love  of  sports,  and  had  especially  no 
aflfection  for  this  quintain  post. 

"I  wish  you'd  just  try  it  after  breakfast,"  said  she.  "You 
could  have  the  saddle  put  on  Mark  Antony,  and  the  pole 
is  there  all  handy.  You  can  take  the  flour  bag  off,  you 
know,  if  you  think  Mark  Antony  won't  be  quick  enough," 
added  Miss  Thorne,  seeing  that  her  brother's  countenance 
was  not  indicative  of  complete  accordance  with  her  little 
proposition. 

Now  Mark  Antony  was  a  valuable  old  hunter,  excellently 
suited  to  Mr.  Thome's  usual  requirements,  steady  indeed  at 
his  fences,  but  extremely  sure,  very  good  in  deep  ground, 
and  safe  on  the  roads.  But  he  had  never  yet  been  ridden  at 
a  quintain,  and  Mr.  Thorne  was  not  inclined  to  put  him  to 
the  trial,  either  with  or  without  the  bag  of  flour.  He 
hummed  and  hawed,  and  finally  declared  that  he  was  afraid 
Mark  Antony  would  shy. 

"Then  try  the  cob,"  said  the  indefatigable  Miss  Thorne. 

"He's  in  physic,"  said  Wilfred. 

343 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"There's  the  Beelzebub  colt,"  said  his  sister;  'T  know  he's 
in  the  stable,  because  I  saw  Peter  exercising  him  just  now." 

"My  dear  Monica,  he's  so  wild,  that  it's  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  manage  him  at  all.  He'd  destroy  himself  and  me  too, 
if  I  attempted  to  ride  him  at  such  a  rattletrap  as  that," 

A  rattletrap!  The  quintain  that  she  had  put  up  with  so 
much  anxious  care;  the  game  that  she  had  prepared  for 
the  amusement  of  the  stalwart  yeomen  of  the  country;  the 
sport  that  had  been  honoured  by  the  affection  of  so  many  of 
their  ancestors !  It  cut  her  to  the  heart  to  hear  it  so  denom- 
inated by  her  own  brother.  There  were  but  the  two  of  them 
left  together  in  the  world ;  and  it  had  ever  been  one  of  the 
rules  by  which  Miss  Thorne  had  regulated  her  conduct 
through  life,  to  say  nothing  that  could  provoke  her  brother. 
She  had  often  had  to  suffer  from  his  indifference  to  time- 
honoured  British  customs ;  but  she  had  always  suffered  in 
silence.  It  was  part  of  her  creed  that  the  head  of  the  family 
should  never  be  upbraided  in  his  own  house ;  and  Miss 
Thorne  had  lived  up  to  her  creed.  Now,  however,  she  was 
greatly  tried.  The  colour  mounted  to  her  ancient  cheek,  and 
the  fire  blazed  in  her  still  bright  eye ;  but  yet  she  said  noth- 
ing. She  resolved  that  at  any  rate,  to  him  nothing  more 
should  be  said  about  the  quintain  that  day. 

She  sipped  her  tea  in  silent  sorrow,  and  thought  with  pain- 
ful regret  of  the  glorious  days  when  her  great  ancestor  Eal- 
fried  had  successfully  held  Ullathorne  against  a  Norman 
invader.  There  was  no  such  spirit  now  left  in  her  family 
except  that  small  useless  spark  which  burnt  in  her  own 
bosom.  And  she  herself,  was  not  she  at  this  moment  intent 
on  entertaining  a  descendant  of  those  very  Normans,  a  vain 
proud  countess  with  a  frenchified  name,  who  would  only 
think  that  she  graced  Ullathorne  too  highly  by  entering  its 
portals?  Was  it  likely  that  an  honourable  John,  the  son  of 
an  Earl  De  Courcy,  should  ride  at  a  quintain  in  company 
with  Saxon  yeomen?  And  why  should  she  expect  her 
brother  to  do  that  which  her  brother's  guests  would  decline 
to  do? 

Some  dim  faint  idea  of  the  impracticability  of  her  own 
views  flitted  across  her  brain.  Perhaps  it  was  necessary  that 
races  doomed  to  live  on  the  same  soil  should  give  way  to 

344 


MISS    THORNE'S    FETE    CHAMPETRE. 

each  other,  and  adopt  each  other's  pursuits.  Perhaps  it  was 
impossible  that  after  more  than  five  centuries  of  close  inter- 
course, Normans  should  remain  Normans,  and  Saxons,  Sax- 
ons. Perhaps  after  all  her  neighbours  were  wiser  than  her- 
self. Such  ideas  did  occasionally  present  themselves  to  Miss 
Thome's  mind,  and  make  her  sad  enough.  But  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  that  her  favourite  quintain  was  but  a  modern 
copy  of  a  Norman  knight's  amusement,  an  adaptation  of  the 
noble  tourney  to  the  tastes  and  habits  of  the  Saxon  yeomen. 
Of  this  she  was  ignorant,  and  it  would  have  been  cruelty  to 
instruct  her. 

When  Mr.  Thorne  saw  the  tear  in  her  eye,  he  repented 
himself  of  his  contemptuous  expression.  By  him  also  it 
was  recognised  as  a  binding  law  that  every  whim  of  his  sis- 
ter was  to  be  respected.  He  was  not  perhaps  so  firm  in  his 
observances  to  her,  as  she  was  in  hers  to  him.  But  his  in- 
tentions were  equally  good,  and  whenever  he  found  that  he 
had  forgotten  them  it  was  matter  of  grief  to  him. 

"My  dear  Monica,"  said  he,  "I  beg  your  pardon;  I  don't 
in  the  least  mean  to  speak  ill  of  the  game.  When  I  called 
it  a  rattletrap,  I  merely  meant  that  it  was  so  for  a  man  of  my 
age.    You  know  you  always  forget  that  I  an't  a  young  man." 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not  an  old  man,  Wilfred,"  said 
she,  accepting  the  apology  in  her  heart,  and  smiling  at  him 
with  the  tear  still  on  her  cheek. 

"If  I  was  five-and-twenty,  or  thirty,"  continued  he,  "I 
should  like  nothing  better  than  riding  at  the  quintain  all 
day." 

"But  you  are  not  too  old  to  hunt  or  to  shoot,"  said  she. 
"If  you  can  jump  over  a  ditch  and  hedge  I  am  sure  you 
could  turn  the  quintain  round." 

"But  when  I  ride  over  the  hedges,  my  dear — and  it  isn't 
very  often  I  do  that — but  when  I  do  ride  over  the  hedges 
there  isn't  any  bag  of  flour  coming  after  me.  Think  how 
I'd  look  takincf  the  countess  out  to  breakfast  with  the  back 
of  mv  head  all  covered  with  meal." 

Miss  Thorne  said  nothing  further.  She  didn't  like  the  al- 
lusion to  the  countess.  She  couldn't  be  satisfied  with  the 
reflection  that  the  sports  of  Ullathorne  should  be  interfered 
with  by  the  personal   attentions  necessary  for  a   Lady  De 

345 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Courcy.  But  she  saw  that  it  was  useless  for  her  to  push  the 
matter  further.  It  was  conceded  that  Mr.  Thorne  was  to  be 
spared  the  quintain ;  and  Miss  Thorne  determined  to  trust 
wholly  to  a  youthful  knight  of  hers,  an  immense  favourite, 
who,  as  she  often  declared,  was  a  pattern  to  the  young  men 
of  the  age,  and  an  excellent  sample  of  an  English  yeoman. 

This  was  Farmer  Greenacre's  eldest  son;  who,  to  tell  the 
truth,  had  from  his  earliest  years  taken  the  exact  measure 
of  Miss  Thome's  foot.  In  his  boyhood  he  had  never  failed 
to  obtain  from  her,  apples,  pocket  money,  and  forgiveness 
for  his  numerous  trespasses ;  and  now  in  his  early  manhood 
he  got  privileges  and  immunities  which  were  equally  valu- 
able. He  was  allowed  a  day  or  two's  shooting  in  Septem- 
ber; he  schooled  the  squire's  horses;  got  slips  of  trees  out 
of  the  orchard,  and  roots  of  flowers  out  of  the  garden ;  and 
had  the  fishing  of  the  little  river  altogether  in  his  own  hands. 
He  had  undertaken  to  come  mounted  on  a  nag  of  his  fa- 
ther's, and  show  the  way  at  the  quintain  post.  Whatever 
young  Greenacre  did  the  others  would  do  after  him.  The 
juvenile  Lookalofts  might  stand  aloof,  but  the  rest  of  the 
youth  of  Ullathorne  would  be  sure  to  venture  if  Harry 
Greenacre  showed  the  way.  And  so  Miss  Thorne  made  up 
her  mind  to  dispense  with  the  noble  Johns  and  Georges,  and 
trust,  as  her  ancestors  had  done  before  her,  to  the  thews  and 
sinews  of  native  Ullathorne  growth. 

At  about  nine  the  lower  orders  began  to  congregate  in  the 
paddock  and  park,  under  the  surveillance  of  Mr.  Plomacy 
and  the  head  gardener  and  head  groom,  who  were  sworn  in 
as  his  deputies,  and  were  to  assist  him  in  keeping  the  peace 
and  promoting  the  sports.  Many  of  the  younger  inhabitants 
of  the  neighbourhood,  thinking  that  they  could  not  have  too 
much  of  a  good  thing,  had  come  at  a  very  early  hour,  and 
the  road  between  the  house  and  the  church  had  been 
thronged  for  some  time  before  the  gates  were  thrown  open. 

And  then  another  difficulty  of  huge  dimensions  arose,  a 
difficulty  which  ]\Tr.  Plomacy  had  indeed  foreseen  and  for 
which  he  was  in  some  sort  provided.  Some  of  those  who 
wished  to  share  Miss  Thome's  hospitality  were  not  so  par- 
ticular as  they  should  have  been  as  to  the  preliminary  cere- 
mony of  an  invitation.     They  doubtless  conceived  that  they 

346 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    I. 

had  been  overlooked  by  accident ;  and  instead  of  taking  this 
in  dudgeon,  as  their  betters  would  have  done,  they  good- 
naturedly  put  up  with  the  slight,  and  showed  that  they  did 
so  by  presenting  themselves  at  the  gate  in  their  Sunday  best. 

Mr.  Plomacy,  however,  well  knew  who  were  welcome  and 
who  were  not.  To  some,  even  though  uninvited,  he  allowed 
ingress.  "Don't  be  too  particular,  Plomacy,"  his  mistress 
had  said;  "especially  with  the  children.  If  they  live  any- 
where near,  let  them  in." 

Acting  on  this  hint,  Mr.  Plomacy  did  let  in  many  an  eager 
urchin,  and  a  few  tidily  dressed  girls  with  their  swains, 
who  in  no  way  belonged  to  the  property.  But  to  the  deni- 
zens of  the  city  he  was  inexorable.  Many  a  Barchester  ap- 
prentice made  his  appearance  there  that  day,  and  urged  with 
piteous  supplication  that  he  had  been  working  all  the  week 
in  making  saddles  and  boots  for  the  use  of  Ullathorne,  in 
compounding  doses  for  the  horses,  or  cutting  up  carcasses 
for  the  kitchen.  No  such  claim  was  allowed.  Mr.  Plomacy 
knew  nothing  about  the  city  apprentices ;  he  was  to  admit 
the  tenants  and  labourers  on  the  estate ;  Miss  Thorne  wasn't 
going  to  take  in  the  whole  city  of  Barchester ;  and  so  on. 

Nevertheless,  before  the  day  was  half  over,  all  this  was 
found  to  be  useless.  Almost  anybody  who  chose  to  come 
made  his  way  into  the  park,  and  the  care  of  the  guardians 
was  transferred  to  the  tables  on  which  the  banquet  was 
spread.  Even  here  there  was  many  an  unauthorised  claim- 
ant for  a  place,  of  whom  it  was  impossible  to  get  quit  with- 
out more  commotion  than  the  place  and  food  were  worth. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

ULLATHORNE    SPORTS. — ACT    I. 

THE  trouble  in  civilised  life  of  entertaining  company,  as 
it  is  called  too  generally  without  much  regard  to 
strict  veracity,  is  so  great  that  it  cannot  but  be  matter  of 
wonder  that  people  are  so  fond  of  attempting  it.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  ascertain  what  is  the  quid  pro  quo.  If  they  who  give 
such  laborious  parties,  and  who  endure  such  toil  and  turmoil 

347 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

in  the  vain  hope  of  giving  them  successfully,  really  enjoyed 
the  parties  given  by  others,  the  matter  could  be  understood. 
A  sense  of  justice  would  induce  men  and  women  to  undergo, 
in  behalf  of  others,  those  miseries  which  others  had  under- 
gone in  their  behalf.  But  they  all  profess  that  going  out  is 
as  great  a  bore  as  receiving;  and  to  look  at  them  when  they 
are  out,  one  cannot  but  believe  them. 

Entertain !  Who  shall  have  sufficient  self-assurance,  who 
shall  feel  sufficient  confidence  in  his  own  powers  to  dare  to 
boast  that  he  can  entertain  his  company?  A  clown  can 
sometimes  do  so,  and  sometimes  a  dancer  in  short  petticoats 
and  stuffed  pink  legs ;  occasionally,  perhaps,  a  singer.  But 
beyond  these,  success  in  this  art  of  entertaining  is  not  often 
achieved.  Young  men  and  girls  linking  themselves  kind 
with  kind,  pairing  like  birds  in  spring  because  nature  wills  it, 
they,  after  a  simple  fashion,  do  entertain  each  other.  Few 
others  even  try. 

Ladies,  when  they  open  their  houses,  modestly  confessing, 
it  may  be  presumed,  their  own  incapacity,  mainly  trust  to 
wax  candles  and  upholstery.  Gentlemen  seem  to  rely  on 
their  white  waistcoats.  To  these  are  added,  for  the  delight 
of  the  more  sensual,  champagne  and  such  good  things  of 
the  table  as  fashion  allows  to  be  still  considered  as  comes- 
tible. Even  in  this  respect  the  world  is  deteriorating.  All 
the  good  soups  are  now  tabooed ;  and  at  the  houses  of  one's 
accustomed  friends,  small  barristers,  doctors,  government 
clerks,  and  such  like  (for  we  cannot  all  of  us  always  live 
as  grandees,  surrounded  by  an  elysium  of  livery  servants), 
one  gets  a  cold  potato  handed  to  one  as  a  sort  of  finale  to 
one's  slice  of  mutton.  Alas !  for  those  happy  days  when 
one  could  say  to  one's  neighbourhood,  "Jones,  shall  I  give 
you  some  mashed  turnips? — may  I  trouble  you  for  a  little 
cabbage?"  And  then  the  pleasure  of  drinking  wine  with 
Mrs.  Jones  and  Miss  Smith ;  with  all  the  Joneses  and  all  the 
Smiths !  These  latter-day  habits  are  certainly  more  eco- 
nomical. 

Miss  Thorne,  however,  boldly  attempted  to  leave  the 
modern  beaten  track,  and  made  a  positive  effort  to  entertain 
her  guests.  Alas !  she  did  so  with  but  moderate  success. 
They  had  all  their  own  way  of  going,  and  would  not  go  her 

348 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    I. 

way.  She  piped  to  them,  but  they  would  not  dance.  She 
offered  to  them  good  honest  household  cake,  made  of  cur- 
rants and  flour  and  eggs  and  sweetmeat ;  but  they  would 
feed  themselves  on  trashy  wafers  from  the  shop  of  the  Bar- 
chester  pastry-cook,  on  chalk  and  gum  and  adulterated 
sugar.  Poor  Miss  Thorne !  yours  is  not  the  first  honest  soul 
that  has  vainly  striven  to  recall  the  glories  of  happy  days 
gone  by!  If  fashion  suggests  to  a  Lady  De  Courcy  that 
when  invited  to  a  dejeuner  at  twelve  she  ought  to  come  at 
three,  no  eloquence  of  thuie  will  teach  her  the  advantage  of 
a  nearer  approach  to  punctuality. 

She  had  fondly  thought  that  when  she  called  on  her 
friends  to  come  at  twelve,  and  specially  begged  them  to 
believe  that  she  meant  it,  she  would  be  able  to  see  them 
comfortably  seated  in  their  tents  at  two.  Vain  woman — or 
rather  ignorant  woman — ignorant  of  the  advances  of  that 
civilisation  which  the  world  had  witnessed  while  she  was 
growing  old.  At  twelve  she  found  herself  alone,  dressed  in 
all  the  glory  of  the  newest  of  her  many  suits  of  raiment; 
with  strong  shoes  however,  and  a  serviceable  bonnet  on  her 
head,  and  a  warm  rich  shawl  on  her  shoulders.  Thus  clad 
she  peered  out  into  the  tent,  went  to  the  ha-ha,  and  satis- 
fied herself  that  at  any  rate  the  youngsters  were  amusing 
themselves,  spoke  a  word  to  Mrs.  Greenacre  over  the  ditch, 
and  took  one  look  at  the  quintain.  Three  or  four  young 
farmers  were  turning  the  machine  round  and  round,  and 
poking  at  the  bag  of  flour  in  a  manner  not  at  all  intended 
by  the  inventor  of  the  game ;  but  no  mounted  sportsmen 
were  there.  Miss  Thorne  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  only 
fifteen  minutes  past  twelve,  and  it  was  understood  that  Harry 
Greenacre  was  not  to  begin  till  the  half  hour. 

Miss  Thorne  returned  to  her  drawing-room  rather  quicker 
than  was  her  wont,  fearing  that  the  countess  might  come 
and  find  none  to  welcome  her.  She  need  not  have  hurried, 
for  no  one  was  there.  At  half-past  twelve  she  peeped  into 
the  kitchen ;  at  a  quarter  to  one  she  was  joined  by  her 
brother;  and  just  then  the  first  fashionable  arrival  took 
place.     Mrs.   Clantantram  was  announced. 

No  announcement  was  necessary,  indeed ;  for  the  good 
lady's  voice  was  heard  as  she  walked  across  the  court-yard 

349 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

to  the  house  scolding  the  unfortunate  postilion  who  had 
driven  her  from  Barchester.  At  the  moment,  Miss  Thornc 
could  not  but  be  thankful  that  the  other  guests  were  more 
fashionable,  and  were  thus  spared  the  fury  of  Mrs.  Clantan- 
tram's  indignation. 

"Oh,  Miss  Thorne,  look  here!"  said  she,  as  soon  as  she 
found  herself  in  the  drawing-room;  "do  look  at  my  roque- 
laure!  It's  clean  spoilt,  and  for  ever.  I  wouldn't  but  wear 
it  because  I  knew  you  wished  us  all  to  be  grand  to-day ;  and 
yet  I  had  my  misgivings.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  It  was  five- 
and-twcnty  shillings  a  yard." 

The  Barchester  post  horses  had  misbehaved  in  some  un- 
fortunate manner  just  as  Mrs.  Clantantram  was  getting  out 
of  the  chaise,  and  had  nearly  thrown  her  under  the  wheel. 

Mrs.  Clantantram  belonged  to  other  days,  and  therefore, 
though  she  had  but  little  else  to  recommend  her,  Miss 
Thorne  was  to  a  certain  extent  fond  of  her.  She  sent  the 
roquclaurc  away  to  be  cleaned,  and  lent  her  one  of  her  best 
shawls  out  of  her  own  wardrobe. 

The  next  comer  was  Mr.  Arabin,  who  was  immediately 
informed  of  Mrs.  Clantantram's  misfortune,  and  of  her  de- 
termination to  pay  neither  master  nor  post-boy ;  although, 
as  she  remarked,  she  intended  to  get  her  lift  home  before 
she  made  known  her  mind  upon  that  matter.  Then  a  good 
deal  of  rustling  was  heard  in  the  sort  of  lobby  that  was  used 
for  the  ladies'  outside  cloaks ;  and  the  door  having  been 
thrown  wide  open,  the  servant  announced,  not  in  the  most 
confident  of  voices,  Mrs.  Lookaloft,  and  the  Miss  Looka- 
lofts,  and  Mr.  Augustus  Lookaloft. 

Poor  man ! — we  mean  the  footman.  He  knew,  none  bet- 
ter, that  Mrs.  Lookaloft  had  no  business  there,  that  she  was 
not  wanted  there,  and  would  not  be  welcome.  But  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  tell  a  stout  lady  with  a  low  dress,  short 
sleeves,  and  satin  at  eight  shillings  a  yard,  that  she  had  come 
to  the  wrong  tent ;  he  had  not  dared  to  hint  to  young  ladies 
with  white  dancing  shoes  and  long  gloves,  that  there  was  a 
place  ready  for  them  in  the  paddock.  And  thus  Mrs.  Looka- 
loft carried  her  point,  broke  through  the  guards,  and  made 
her  way  into  the  citadel.  That  she  would  have  to  pass  an 
uncomfortable   time  there,   she  had   surmised   before.      But 

35^ 


ULLATIK^I^NE    SPc^RTS.— ACT    T. 

nothinj;'  now  couUl  rob  licr  of  the  power  of  Uoastiiij;-  (hat 
she  had  cotisortcd  on  llio  lawn  with  the  S([uire  and  Miss 
Tliorno.  with  a  conntoss.  a  bishop,  and  tho  i.-onnly  m.mdi'os, 
while  ]\lfs.  Clreenaoro  and  snch  like  were  walking-  about 
with  the  ploui;lib(ns  in  the  park.  It  was  a  great  in>int  L^aineil 
by  Mrs.  Lookaloft,  and  it  niij;ht  be  fairly  expeeted  that  frmn 
this  time  forwanl  the  tradesmen  of  Barohester  wonKk  with 
nndiuibtini;-  pens  address  her  luisband  as  'P.  l.ookaloft, 
Esquire. 

Mrs.  I.ookaloi't's  pluek  earried  her  thrt>ui;h  everylhiui;-, 
anil  she  walkeil  triinnphant  into  the  IdlatluM-ne  drawing-- 
room; but  her  ehildren  ilid  feel  a  little  abashed  at  the  sort 
of  reeeption  (hey  met  with.  It  was  not  in  Miss  Thome's 
heart  to  insult  her  own  i^tiests  ;  but  neither  was  it  in  her 
dispt>sition  io  (n'erlook  sueh  etTron(ery. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lookalof(.  is  (his  ymi,"  said  she;  "and  your 
daughters  and  son?  \\\*1I.  we're  very  glad  (o  sei-  you;  but 
I'm  sorry  you've  come  in  sueh  low  dresses,  as  we  are  all 
going  out  of  doors.     Could  we  lend  yon  anything?" 

"Oh  dear  no!  (hank  ye.  Miss  Thorne."  said  (he  modier; 
"the  girls  and  myself  are  ([uite  used  to  low  ilresses.  wdien 
we're  out." 

"Are  you,  indeed?"  said  Miss  Thorne  shuddering;  bu( 
the  shudder  was  lost  on   Mrs.   l.ot)kaloft. 

"And  Where's  LookaU^ft  ?"  said  (he  master  of  (he  house, 
coming  uj)  (o  welcome  his  (enan('s  wife.  1  .et  the  fatdts  of 
the  family  be  what  they  wotdd.  be  emdd  not  but  remenilxM- 
that  their  rent  was  well  i)aid  ;  he  was  tberefori-  not  willing 
to  give  (hem  a  cold  shoulder. 

"Such  a  beadaelu',  Mr.  Thonu> !"  said  Mrs.  l.ookalof(. 
"In  fact  he  couldn't  stir,  or  yon  may  be  ci-rtain  on  sueh  a 
day  he  would  not  havi-  absented   hissell." 

"Dear  me."  said  Miss  Thorne.  "If  he  is  so  ill.  I'm  sure 
you'd  wish  to  be  with  him." 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Mrs.  l.ookaloft.  "Not  at  all,  Miss 
Thorne.  It  is  only  bilious  you  know,  and  when  he's  that 
way  he  can  hv.w  nobody  nigh  him." 

The  faet  h<wvevi'r  was  that  Mr.  Eodk.akd't,  b;iving  either 
mor(^  sense  nv  less  eonraire  lb;ni  bis  wife,  had  not  ebdsen 
to  intruile  on  Miss  Thome's  di-awing-room  ;  and  as  he  eonld 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

not  very  well  have  gone  among  the  plebeians  while  his  wife 
was  with  the  patricians,  he  thought  it  most  expedient  to  re- 
main at  Rosebank. 

Mrs.  Lookaloft  soon  found  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  the  Miss 
Lookalofts  on  two  chairs,  while  Mr.  Augustus  stood  near 
the  door;  and  here  they  remained  till  in  due  time  they  were 
seated  all  four  together  at  the  bottom  of  the  dining-room 
table. 

Then  the  Grantlys  came ;  the  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grant- 
ly  and  the  two  girls,  and  Dr.  Gwynne  and  Mr.  Harding ; 
and  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  they  were  closely  followed  by 
Dr.  Stanhope's  carriage.  As  Eleanor  looked  out  of  the  car- 
riage window,  she  saw  her  brother-in-law  helping  the  ladies 
out,  and  threw  herself  back  into  her  seat,  dreading  to  be 
discovered.  vShe  had  had  an  odious  journey.  Mr.  Slope's 
civility  had  been  more  than  ordinarily  greasy;  and  now, 
though  he  had  not  in  fact  said  anything  which  she  could 
notice,  she  had  for  the  first  time  entertained  a  suspicion  that 
he  was  intending  to  make  love  to  her.  Was  it  after  all  true 
that  she  had  been  conducting  herself  in  a  way  that  justified 
the  world  in  thinking  that  she  liked  the  man?  After  all, 
could  it  be  possible  that  the  archdeacon  and  Mr.  Arabin 
were  right  and  that  she  was  wrong?  Charlotte  Stanhope 
had  also  been  watching  Mr.  Slope,  and  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  behoved  her  brother  to  lose  no  further  time, 
if  he  meant  to  gain  the  widow.  She  almost  regretted  that 
it  had  not  been  contrived  that  Bertie  should  be  at  Ullathorne 
before  them. 

Dr.  Grantly  did  not  see  his  sister-in-law  in  company  with 
Mr.  Slope,  but  Mr.  Arabin  did.  Mr.  Arabin  came  out  with 
Mr.  Thorne  to  the  front  door  to  welcome  Mrs.  Grantly,  and 
he  remained  in  the  courtyard  till  all  their  party  had  passed 
on.  Eleanor  hung  back  in  the  carriage  as  long  as  she  well 
could,  but  she  was  nearest  to  the  door,  and  when  Mr.  Slope, 
having  alighted,  offered  her  his  hand,  she  had  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  take  it.  Mr.  Arabin,  standing  at  the  open  door 
while  Mrs.  Grantly  was  shaking  hands  with  some  one  with- 
in, saw  a  clergyman  alight  from  the  carriage  whom  he  at 
once  knew  to  be  Mr.  Slope,  and  then  he  saw  this  clergyman 
hand  out  Mrs.  Bold.     Having  seen  so  much,  Mr.  Arabin, 

352 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    I. 

rather    sick    at    heart,    followed    Mrs.     Grantly    into    the 
house. 

Eleanor  was,  however,  spared  any  further  immediate 
degradation,  for  Dr.  Stanhope  gave  her  his  arm  across  the 
courtyard,  and  Mr.  Slope  was  fain  to  throw  away  his  at- 
tention upon  Charlotte. 

They  had  hardly  passed  into  the  house,  and  from  the 
house  to  the  lawn,  when,  with  a  loud  rattle  and  such  noise 
as  great  men  and  great  women  are  entitled  to  make  in  their 
passage  through  the  world,  the  Proudies  drove  up.  It  was 
soon  apparent  that  no  everyday  comer  was  at  the  door.  One 
servant  whispered  to  another  that  it  was  the  bishop,  and 
the  word  soon  ran  through  all  the  hangers-on  and  strange 
grooms  and  coachmen  about  the  place.  There  was  quite  a 
little  cortege  to  see  the  bishop  and  his  "lady"  walk  across 
the  courtyard,  and  the  good  man  was  pleased  to  see  that 
the  church  was  held  in  such  respect  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Ewold's. 

And  now  the  guests  came  fast  and  thick,  and  the  lawn 
began  to  be  crowded,  and  the  room  to  be  full.  Voices 
buzzed,  silk  rustled  against  silk,  and  muslin  crumpled  against 
muslin.  Miss  Thorne  became  more  happy  than  she  had 
been  and  again  bethought  her  of  her  sports.  There  were 
targets  and  bows  and  arrows  prepared  at  the  further  end 
of  the  lawn.  Here  the  gardens  of  the  place  encroached  with 
a  somewhat  wide  sweep  upon  the  paddock,  and  gave  am.ple 
room  for  the  doings  of  the  toxophilites.  Miss  Thorne  got 
together  such  daughters  of  Diana  as  could  bend  a  bow,  and 
marshalled  them  to  the  targets.  There  were  the  Grantly 
girls  and  the  Proudie  girls  and  the  Chadwick  girls,  and  the 
two  daughters  of  the  burly  chancellor,  and  Miss  Knowle ; 
and  with  them  went  Frederick  and  Augustus  Chadwick,  and 
young  Knowle  of  Knowle  park,  and  Frank  Foster  of  the 
Elms,  and  Mr.  Vellem  Deeds  the  dashing  attorney  of  the 
High  Street,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Brown,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  White,  all  of  whom,  as  in  duty 
bound,  attended  the  steps  of  the  three  Miss  Proudies. 

"Did  you  ever  ride  at  the  quintain,  Mr.  Foster?"  said 
Miss  Thorne,  as  she  walked  with  her  party,  across  the 
lawn. 

^'  353 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"The  quintain?"  said  young  Foster,  who  considered  him- 
self a  dab  at  horsemanship.  "Is  it  a  sort  of  gate,  Miss 
Thorne  ?" 

Miss  Thorne  had  to  explain  the  noble  game  she  spoke 
of,  and  Frank  Foster  had  to  own  that  he  never  had  ridden 
at  the  quintain. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  and  see?"  said  Miss  Thorne. 
"There'll  be  plenty  here  without  you,  if  you  like  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Frank;  "I  suppose  the  ladies 
can  come  too." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Thorne;  "those  who  like  it;  I  have 
no  doubt  they'll  go  to  see  your  prowess,  if  you'll  ride,  Mr. 
Foster." 

Mr.  Foster  looked  down  at  a  most  unexceptional  pair  of 
pantaloons,  which  had  arrived  from  London  only  the  day 
before.  They  were  the  very  things,  at  least  he  thought  so, 
for  a  picnic  or  fete  champetre ;  but  he  was  not  prepared  to 
ride  in  them.  Nor  was  he  more  encouraged  than  had  been 
Mr.  Thorne,  by  the  idea  of  being  attacked  from  behind  by 
the  bag  of  flour  which  Miss  Thorne  had  graphically  de- 
scribed to  him. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  riding,  Miss  Thorne,"  said 
he;  "I  fear  I'm  not  quite  prepared." 

Miss  Thorne  sighed,  but  said  nothing  further.  She  left 
the  toxophilites  to  their  bows  and  arrows,  and  returned 
towards  the  house.  But  as  she  passed  by  the  entrance  to 
the  small  park,  she  thought  that  she  might  at  any  rate  en- 
courage the  yeomen  by  her  presence,  as  she  could  not  induce 
her  more  fashionable  guests  to  mix  with  them  in  their  man- 
ly amusements.  Accordingly  she  once  more  betook  herself 
to  the  quintain  post. 

Here  to  her  great  delight  she  found  Harry  Greenacre 
ready  mounted,  with  his  pole  in  his  hand,  and  a  lot  of  com- 
rades standing  round  him,  encouraging  him  to  the  assault. 
She  stood  at  a  little  distance  and  nodded  to  him  in  token 
of  her  good  pleasure. 

"Shall  I  begin,  ma'am?"  said  Harry,  fingering  his  long 
stafif  in  a  rather  awkward  way,  while  his  horse  moved  un- 
easily beneath  him,  not  accustomed  to  a  rider  armed  with 
such  a  weapon. 

354 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    L 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Miss  Thorne,  standing-  triumphant  as  the 
queen  of  beauty,  on  an  inverted  tub  which  some  chance  had 
brought  thither  from  the  farm-yard. 

"Here  goes  then,"  said  Harry,  as  he  wheeled  his  horse 
round  to  get  the  necessary  momentum  of  a  sharp  gallop. 
The  quintain  post  stood  right  before  him,  and  the  square 
board  at  which  he  was  to  tilt  was  fairly  in  his  way.  If  he 
hit  that  duly  in  the  middle,  and  maintained  his  pace  as  he 
did  so,  it  was  calculated  that  he  would  be  carried  out  of 
reach  of  the  flour  bag,  which,  suspended  at  the  other  end 
of  the  cross-bar  on  the  post,  would  swing  round  when  the 
board  was  struck.  It  was  also  calculated  that  if  the  rider 
did  not  maintain  his  pace,  he  would  get  a  blow  from  the 
flour  bag  just  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  bear  about  him 
the  signs  of  his  awkwardness  to  the  great  amusement  of 
the  lookers-on. 

Harry  Greenacre  did  not  object  to  being  powdered  with 
flour  in  the  service  of  his  mistress,  and  therefore  gallantly 
touched  his  steed  with  his  spur,  having  laid  his  lance  in 
rest  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  But  his  ability  in  this  respect 
w^as  not  great,  and  his  appurtenances  probably  not  very 
good ;  consequently,  he  struck  his  horse  with  the  pole  un- 
intentionally on  the  side  of  the  head  as  he  started.  The 
animal  swerved  and  shied,  and  galloped  off  wide  of  the 
quintain.  Harry  well  accustomed  to  manage  a  horse,  but 
not  to  do  so  with  a  twelve-foot  rod  on  his  arm,  lowered  his 
right  hand  to  the  bridle  and  thus  the  end  of  the  lance  came 
to  the  ground,  and  got  between  the  legs  of  the  steed.  Down 
came  rider  and  steed  and  staff.  Young  Greenacre  was 
thrown  some  six  feet  over  the  horse's  head,  and  poor  Aliss 
Thorne  almost  fell  off  her  tub  in  a  swoon. 

"Oh,  gracious,  he's  killed,"  shrieked  a  woman  who  was 
near  him  when  he  fell. 

"The  Lord  be  good  to  him!  his  poor  mother,  his  poor 
mother !"  said  another. 

"Well,  drat  them  dangerous  plays  all  the  world  over," 
said  an  old  crone. 

"He  has  broken  his  neck  sure  enough,  if  ever  man  did," 
said  a  fourth. 

Poor  Miss  Thorne.     She  heard  all  this  and  yet  did  not 

355 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

quite  swoon.  She  made  her  way  through  the  crowd  as  best 
she  could,  sick  herself  almost  to  death.  Oh,  his  mother— 
his  poor  mother!  how  could  she  ever  forgive  herself.  The 
agony  of  that  moment  was  terrific.  She  could  hardly  get 
to  the  place  where  the  poor  lad  was  lying,  as  three  or  four 
men  in  front  were  about  the  horse  which  had  risen  with 
some  difficulty;  but  at  last  she  found  herself  close  to  the 
young  farmer. 

"Has  he  marked  himself?  for  heaven's  sake  tell  me  that; 
has  he  marked  his  knees?"  said  Harry,  slowly  rising  and 
rubbing  his  left  shoulder  with  his  right  hand,  and  thinking 
only  of  his  horse's  legs.  Miss  Thorne  soon  found  that  he 
had  not  broken  his  neck,  nor  any  of  his  bones,  nor  been 
injured  in  any  essential  way.  But  from  that  time 
forth  she  never  instigated  any  one  to  ride  at  a  quin- 
tain. 

Eleanor  left  Dr.  Stanhope  as  soon  as  she  could  do  so  civil- 
ly, and  went  in  quest  of  her  father  whom  she  found  on  the 
lawn  in  company  with  Mr.  Arabin.  She  was  not  sorry  to 
find  them  together.  She  was  anxious  to  disabuse  at  any  rate 
her  father's  mind  as  to  this  report  which  had  got  abroad 
respecting  her,  and  would  have  been  well  pleased  to  have 
been  able  to  do  the  same  with  regard  to  Mr.  Arabin.  She 
put  her  own  through  her  father's  arm,  coming  up  behind  his 
back,  and  then  tendering  her  hand  also  to  the  vicar  of  St. 
Ewold's. 

"And  how  did  you  come?"  said  Mr.  Harding,  when  the 
first  greeting  was  over. 

"The  Stanhopes  brought  me,"  said  she;  "their  carriage 
was  obliged  to  come  twice,  and  has  now  gone  back  for  the 
signora."  As  she  spoke  she  caught  Mr.  Arabin's  eye,  and 
saw  that  he  was  looking  pointedly  at  her  with  a  severe  ex- 
pression. She  understood  at  once  the  accusation  contained 
in  his  glance.  It  said  as  plainly  as  an  eye  could  speak,  "Yes, 
you  came  with  the  Stanhopes,  but  you  did  so  in  order  that 
you  might  be  in  company  with  Mr.  Slope." 

"Our  party,"  said  she,  still  addressing  her  father,  "con- 
sisted of  the  doctor  and  Charlotte  Stanhope,  myself,  and 
Mr.  Slope."  As  she  mentioned  the  last  name  she  felt  her 
father's   arm   quiver   slightly  beneath    her   touch.      At    the 

356 


ULLATHORNE   SPORTS.— ACT   I. 

same  moment  Mr.  Arabin  turned  away  from  them,  and 
joining  his  hands  behind  his  back  strolled  slowly  away  by 
one  of  the  paths. 

"Papa,"  said  she,  "it  was  impossible  to  help  coming  in 
the  same  carriage  with  Mr.  Slope ;  it  was  quite  impossible. 
I  had  promised  to  come  with  them  before  I  dreamt  of  his 
coming,  and  afterwards  I  could  not  get  out  of  it  without 
explaining  and  giving  rise  to  talk.  You  weren't  at  home, 
you  know;  I  couldn't  possibly  help  it."  She  said  all  this 
so  quickly  that  by  the  time  her  apology  was  spoken  she  was 
quite  out  of  breath. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  have  wished  to  help  it,  my 
dear,"  said  her  father. 

"Yes,  papa,  you  do ;  you  must  know,  you  do  know  all  the 
things  they  said  at  Plumstead.  I  am  sure  you  do.  You 
know  all  the  archdeacon  said.  How  unjust  he  was ;  and 
Mr.  Arabin  too.  He's  a  horrid  man,  a  horrid  odious  man, 
but " 

"Who  is  an  odious  man,  my  dear?  Mr.  Arabin?" 

"No;  but  Mr.  Slope.  You  know  I  mean  Mr.  Slope.  He's 
the  most  odious  man  I  ever  met  in  my  life,  and  it  was  most 
unfortunate  my  having  to  come  here  in  the  same  carriage 
with  him.    But  how  could  I  help  it  ?" 

A  great  weight  began  to  move  itself  off  Mr.  Harding's 
mind.  So,  after  all,  the  archdeacon  with  all  his  wisdom, 
and  Mrs.  Grantly  with  all  her  tact,  and  Mr.  Arabin  with  all 
his  talent,  were  in  the  wrong.  His  own  child,  his  Eleanor, 
the  daughter  of  whom  he  was  so  proud  was  not  to  become 
the  wife  of  a  Mr.  Slope.  He  had  been  about  to  give  his 
sanction  to  the  marriage,  so  certified  had  he  been  of  the  fact ; 
and  now  he  learnt  that  this  imputed  lover  of  Eleanor's  was 
at  any  rate  as  much  disliked  by  her  as  by  any  one  of  the 
family.  Mr.  Harding,  however,  was  by  no  means  sufficient- 
ly a  man  of  the  world  to  conceal  the  blunder  he  had  made. 
He  could  not  pretend  that  he  had  entertained  no  suspicion; 
he  could  not  make  believe  that  he  had  never  joined  the  arch- 
deacon in  his  surmises.  He  was  greatly  surprised,  and  grati- 
fied beyond  measure,  and  he  could  not  help  showing  that 
such   was  the  case. 

"My  darling  girl,"  said  he,  "I  am  so  delighted,  so  over- 

357 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

joyed.  My  own  child;  you  have  taken  such  a  weight  off 
my  mind." 

"But  surely,  papa,  you  didn't  think " 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  think,  my  dear.  The  archdeacon 
told  me  that ■' 

"The  archdeacon !"  said  Eleanor,  her  face  lighting  up  with 
passion.  "A  man  like  the  archdeacon  might,  one  would 
think,  be  better  employed  than  in  traducing  his  sister-in-law, 
and  creating  bitterness  between  a  father  and  his  daughter!" 

"He  didn't  mean  to  do  that,  Eleanor." 

"What  did  he  mean  then?  Why  did  he  interfere  with 
me,  and  fill  your  mind  with  such  falsehood?" 

"Never  mind  it  now,  my  child ;  never  mind  it  now.  We 
shall  all  know  you  better  now." 

"Oh,  papa,  that  you  should  have  thought  it!  that  you 
should  have  suspected  me !" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  suspicion,  Eleanor. 
There  would  be  nothing  disgraceful,  you  know ;  nothing 
wrong  in  such  a  marriage.  Nothing  that  could  have  justi- 
fied my  interfering  as  your  father."  And  Mr.  Harding 
would  have  proceeded  in  his  own  defence  to  make  out  that 
Mr.  Slope  after  all  was  a  very  good  sort  of  man,  and  a  very 
fitting  second  husband  for  a  young  widow,  had  he  not  been 
interrupted  by  Eleanor's   greater  energy. 

"It  would  be  disgraceful,"  said  she;  "it  would  be  wrong; 
it  would  be  abominable.     Could  I  do  such  a  horrid  thing,  I 

should  expect  no  one  to  speak  to  me.     Ugh "  and  she 

shuddered  as  she  thought  of  the  matrimonial  torch  which 
her  friends  had  been  so  ready  to  light  on  her  behalf.  "I 
don't  wonder  at  Dr.  Grantly ;  I  don't  wonder  at  Susan ;  but, 
oh,  papa,  I  do  wonder  at  you.  How  could  you,  how  could 
you  believe  it?"  Poor  Eleanor,  as  she  thought  of  her  fath- 
er's defalcation,  could  resist  her  tears  no  longer,  and  was 
forced  to  cover  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

The  place  was  not  very  opportune  for  her  grief.  They 
were  walking  through  the  shrubberies,  and  there  were  many 
people  near  them.  Poor  Mr.  Harding  stammered  out  his 
excuse  as  best  he  could,  and  Eleanor  with  an  effort  con- 
trolled her  tears,  and  returned  her  handkerchief  to  her 
pocket.     She  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  forgive  her  father, 

358 


A    MEETING   AT    ULLATHORNE. 

nor  could  she  altogether  refuse  to  join  him  in  the  returning 
gaiety  of  spirit  to  which  her  present  avowal  gave  rise.  It 
was  such  a  load  off  his  heart  to  think  that  he  should  not  be 
called  on  to  welcome  Mr.  Slope  as  his  son-in-law.  It  was 
such  a  relief  to  him  to  find  that  his  daughter's  feelings  and 
his  own  were  now,  as  they  ever  had  been,  in  unison.  He 
had  been  so  unhappy  for  the  last  six  weeks  about  this 
wretched  Mr.  Slope!  He  was  so  indifferent  as  to  the  loss 
of  the  hospital,  so  thankful  for  the  recovery  of  his  daughter, 
that,  strong  as  was  the  ground  for  -  Eleanor's  anger,  she 
could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  be  long  angry  with 
him. 

"Dear  papa,"  she  said,  hanging  closely  to  his  arm,  "never 
suspect  me  again :  promise  me  that  you  never  will.  Wliat- 
ever  I  do,  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  tell  you  first;  you  may 
be  sure  I  shall  consult  you." 

And  Mr.  Harding  did  promise,  and  owned  his  sin,  and 
promised  again.  And  so,  while  he  promised  amendment  and 
she  uttered  forgiveness,  they  returned  together  to  the  draw- 
ing-room windows. 

And  what  had  Eleanor  meant  when  she  declared  that  what- 
ever she  did,  she  would  tell  her  father  first?  What  was  she 
thinking  of  doing? 

So  ended  the  first  act  of  the  melodrama  which  Eleanor 
was  called  on  to  perform  this  day  at  Ullathorne. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

THE   SIGNORA    NERONI,    THE    COUNTESS    DE    COURCY,    AND    MRS. 
PROUDIE   MEET   EACH    OTHER  AT   ULLATHORNE. 

AND  now  there  were  new  arrivals.  Just  as  Eleanor 
reached  the  drawing-room  the  signora  was  being 
wheeled  into  it.  She  had  been  brought  out  of  the  carriage 
into  the  dining-room  and  there  placed  on  a  sofa,  and  was 
now  in  the  act  of  entering  the  other  room,  by  the  joint  aid 
of  her  brother  and  sister,  Mr.  Arabin,  and  two  servants  in 
livery.  She  was  all  in  her  glory,  and  looked  so  pathetically 
happy,  so  full  of  affliction  and  grace,  and  was  so  beautiful, 

359 


,    BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

so  pitiable,  and  so  charming,  that  it  was  almost  impossible 
not  to  be  glad  she  was  there. 

Miss  Thorne  was  unaffectedly  glad  to  welcome  her.  In 
fact,  the  signora  was  a  sort  of  lion;  and  though  there  was 
no  drop  of  the  Leohunter  blood  in  Miss  Thome's  veins,  she 
nevertheless  did  like  to  see  attractive  people  at  her  house. 
The  signora  was  attractive,  and  on  her  first  settlement  in 
the  dining-room  she  had  whispered  two  or  three  soft  femi- 
nine words  into  Miss  Thome's  ear,  which,  at  the  moment, 
had  quite  touched  that  lady's  heart. 

"Oh,  Miss  Thorne;  where  is  Miss  Thorne?"  she  said,  as 
soon  as  her  attendants  had  placed  her  in  her  position  just 
before  one  of  the  windows,  from  whence  she  could  see  all 
that  was  going  on  upon  the  lawn ;  "How  am  I  to  thank  you 
for  permitting  a  creature  like  me  to  be  here?  But  if  you 
knew  the  pleasure  you  give  me,  I  am  sure  you  would  excuse 
the  trouble  I  bring  with  me."  And  as  she  spoke  she  squeezed 
the  spinster's  little  hand  between  her  own. 

"We  are  delighted  to  see  you  here,"  said  Miss  Thorne; 
"you  give  us  no  trouble  at  all,  and  we  think  it  a  great  favour 
conferred  by  you  to  come  and  see  us;  don't  we  Wilfred?" 

"A  very  great  favour  indeed,"  said  Mr,  Thorne,  with  a 
gallant  bow,  but  of  a  somewhat  less  cordial  welcome  than 
that  conceded  by  his  sister.  Mr.  Thorne  had  heard  perhaps 
more  of  the  antecedents  of  his  guest  than  his  sister  had  done, 
and  had  not  as  yet  undergone  the  power  of  the  signora's 
charms. 

But  while  the  mother  of  the  last  of  the  Neros  was  thus 
in  her  full  splendour,  with  crowds  of  people  gazing  at  her 
and  the  elite  of  the  company  standing  round  her  couch,  her 
glory  was  paled  by  the  arrival  of  the  Countess  De  Courcy. 
Miss  Thorne  had  now  been  waiting  three  hours  for  the 
countess,  and  could  not  therefore  but  show  very  evident 
gratification  when  the  arrival  at  last  took  place.  She  and 
her  brother  of  course  went  off  to  welcome  the  titled  gran- 
dees, and  with  them,  alas,  went  many  of  the  signora's  ad- 
mirers. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thorne,"  said  the  countess,  while  in  the  act  of 
being  disrobed  of  her  fur  cloaks,  and  re-robed  in  her  gauze 
shawls,  "what  dreadful  roads  you  have ;  perfectly  frightful." 

360  ■ 


A    MEETING   AT    ULLATHORNE. 

It  happened  that  Mr,  Thorne  was  way-warden  for  the  dis- 
trict, and  not  Hking  the  attack,  began  to  excuse  his  roads. 

"Oh  yes,  indeed  they  are,"  said  the  countess,  not  minding 
him  in  the  least,  "perfectly  dreadful;  are  they  not,  Mar- 
garetta?  Why,  my  dear  Miss  Thorne,  we  left  Courcy  Castle 
just  at  eleven;  it  was  only  just  past  eleven,  was  it  not,  John? 
and " 

"Just  past  one,  I  think  you  mean,"  said  the  Honourable 
John,  turning  from  the  group  and  eyeing  the  signora 
through  his  glass.  The  signora  gave  him  back  his  own,  as 
the  saying  is,  and  more  with  it ;  so  that  the  young  nobleman 
was  forced  to  avert  his  glance,  and  drop  his  glass. 

"I  say,  Thorne,"  whispered  he,  "who  the  deuce  is  that  on 
the  sofa?" 

"Dr.  Stanhope's  daughter,"  whispered  back  Mr.  Thorne. 
"Signora  Neroni,  she  calls  herself." 

"Whew-ew-ew !"  whistled  the  Honourable  John.  "The 
devil  she  is !  I  have  heard  no  end  of  stories  about  that  filly. 
You  must  positively  introduce  me,  Thorne;  you  positively 
must." 

Mr.  Thome,  who  was  respectability  itself,  did  not  quite 
like  having  a  guest  about  whom  the  Honourable  John  De 
Courcy  had  heard  no  end  of  stories ;  but  he  couldn't  help 
himself.  He  merely  resolved  that  before  he  went  to  bed 
he  would  let  his  sister  know  somewhat  of  the  history  of  the 
lady  she  was  so  willing  to  welcome.  The  innocence  of  Miss 
Thorne,  at  her  time  of  life,  was  perfectly  charming;  but 
even  innocence  may  be  dangerous. 

"John  may  say  what  he  likes,"  continued  the  countess, 
urging  her  excuses  to  Miss  Thorne;  "I  am  sure  we  were 
past  the  castle  gate  before  twelve,  weren't  we,  Margaretta?" 

"Upon  my  word  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Lady  Margaretta, 
"for  I  was  half  asleep.  But  I  do  know  that  I  was  called 
sometime  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  was  dressing  my- 
self before  daylight." 

Wise  people,  when  they  are  in  the  wrong,  always  put 
themselves  right  by  finding  fault  with  the  people  against 
whom  they  have  sinned.  Lady  De  Courcy  was  a  wise  wom- 
an ;  and  therefore,  having  treated  Miss  Thorne  very  badly 
by  staying  away  till  three  o'clock,  she  assumed  the  offensive 

361 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  attacked  Mr.  Thome's  roads.  Her  daughter,  not  less 
wise,  attacked  Miss  Thome's  early  hours.  The  art  of  doing 
this  is  among  the  most  precious  of  those  usually  cultivated 
by  persons  who  know  how  to  Uve.  There  is  no  withstand- 
ing it.  Who  can  go  systematically  to  work,  and  having  done 
battle  with  the  primary  accusation  and  settled  that,  then 
bring  forward  a  counter-charge  and  support  that  also?  Life 
is  not  long  enough  for  such  labours.  A  man  in  the  right 
relies  easily  on  his  rectitude,  and  therefore  goes  about  un- 
armed. His  very  strength  is  his  weakness.  A  man  in  the 
wrong  knows  that  he  must  look  to  his  weapons ;  his  very 
weakness  is  his  strength.  The  one  is  never  prepared  for 
combat,  the  other  is  always  ready.  Therefore  it  is  that  in 
this  world  the  man  that  is  in  the  wrong  almost  invariably  con- 
quers the  man  that  is  in  the  right,  and  invariably  despises 
him. 

A  man  must  be  an  idiot  or  else  an  angel,  who  after  the 
age  of  forty  shall  attempt  to  be  just  to  his  neighbours.  Many 
like  the  Lady  Margaretta  have  learnt  their  lesson  at  a  much 
earlier  age.  But  this  of  course  depends  on  the  school  in 
which  they  have  been  taught. 

Poor  Miss  Thorne  was  altogether  overcome.  She  knew 
very  well  that  she  had  been  ill  treated,  and  yet  she  found 
herself  making  apologies  to  Lady  De  Courcy.  To  do  her 
ladyship  justice,  she  received  them  very  graciously,  and  al- 
lowed herself  with  her  train  of  daughters  to  be  led  towards 
the  lawn. 

There  were  two  windows  in  the  drawing-room  wide  open 
for  the  countess  to  pass  through ;  but  she  saw  that  there 
was  a  woman  on  a  sofa,  at  the  third  window,  and  that  that 
woman  had,  as  it  were,  a  following  attached  to  her.  Her 
ladyship  therefore  determined  to  investigate  the  woman.  The 
De  Courcys  were  hereditarily  short  sighted,  and  had  been 
so  for  thirty  centuries  at  least.  So  Lady  De  Courcy,  who 
when  she  entered  the  family  had  adopted  the  family  habits, 
did  as  her  son  had  done  before  her,  and  taking  her  glass 
to  investigate  the  Signora  Neroni,  pressed  in  among  the 
gentlemen  who  surrounded  the  couch,  and  bowed  slightl-v 
to   those   whom   she   chose  to  honour  by  her  acquaintance. 

In  order  to  get  to  the  window  she  had  to  pass  close  to 

362 


A    MEETING    AT    ULLATHORNE. 

the  front  of  the  couch,  and  as  she  did  so  she  stared  hard  at 
the  occupant.  The  occupant  in  return  stared  hard  at  the 
countess.  The  countess  who  since  her  countess-ship  com- 
menced had  been  accustomed  to  see  all  eyes,  not  royal,  ducal 
or  marquesal,  fall  before  her  own,  paused  as  she  went  on, 
raised  her  eyebrows,  and  stared  even  harder  than  before. 
But  she  had  now  to  do  with  one  who  cared  little  for  coun- 
tesses. It  was,  one  may  say,  impossible  for  mortal  man  or 
woman  to  abash  Madeline  Neroni.  She  opened  her  large 
bright  lustrous  eyes  wider  and  wider,  till  she  seemed  to  be  all 
eyes.  She  gazed  up  into  the  lady's  face,  not  as  though  she  did 
it  with  an  effort,  but  as  if  she  delighted  in  doing  it.  She  used 
no  glass  to  assist  her  effrontery,  and  needed  none.  The 
faintest  possible  smile  of  derision  played  round  her  mouth, 
and  her  nostrils  were  slightly  dilated,  as  if  in  sure  anticipa- 
tion of  her  triumph.  And  it  was  sure.  The  Countess  De 
Courcy,  in  spite  of  her  thirty  centuries  and  De  Courcy  castle, 
and  the  fact  that  Lord  De  Courcy  was  grand  master  of  the 
ponies  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  had  not  a  chance  with  her. 
At  first  the  little  circlet  of  gold  wavered  in  the  countess's 
hand,  then  the  hand  shook,  then  the  circlet  fell,  the  coun- 
tess's head  tossed  itself  into  the  air,  and  the  countess's  feet 
shambled  out  to  the  lawn.  She  did  not  however  go  so  fast 
but  what  she  heard  the  signora's  voice  asking — 

"Who  on  earth  is  that  woman,  Mr.  Slope?" 

"That  is  Lady  De  Courcy." 

"Oh,  ah.  I  might  have  supposed  so.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  Well, 
that's  as  good  as  a  play." 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  any  there  who  had  eyes  to 
observe  it,  and  wit  to  comment  on  what  they  observed. 

But  the  Lady  De  Courcy  soon  found  a  congenial  spirit  on 
the  lawn.  There  she  encountered  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  as  Mrs. 
Proudie  was  not  only  the  wife  of  a  bishop,  but  was  also  the 
cousin  of  an  earl,  Lady  De  Courcy  considered  her  to  be  the 
fittest  companion  she  was  likely  to  meet  in  that  assemblage. 
They  were  accordingly  delighted  to  see  each  other.  Mrs. 
Proudie  by  no  means  despised  a  countess,  and  as  this  coun- 
tess lived  in  the  county  and  within  a  sort  of  extensive  visit- 
ing distance  of  Barchester,  she  was  glad  to  have  this  oppor- 
tunity of  ingratiating  herself. 

363 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

"My  dear  Lady  De  Courcy,  I  am  so  delighted,"  said  she, 
looking  as  little  grim  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  do.  "I 
hardly  expected  to  see  you  here.  It  is  such  a  distance,  and 
then  you  know,  such  a  crowd." 

"And  such  roads,  Mrs.  Proudie !  I  really  wonder  how 
the  people  ever  get  about.  But  I  don't  suppose  they  ever 
do." 

"Well,  I  really  don't  know ;  but  I  suppose  not.  The 
Thornes  don't,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "Very  nice 
person,  Miss  Thorne,  isn't  she?" 

"Oh,  delightful,  and  so  queer;  Fve  known  her  these 
twenty  years.  A  great  pet  of  mine  is  dear  Miss  Thorne. 
She  is  so  very  strange,  you  know.  She  always  makes  me 
think  of  the  Esquimaux  and  the  Indians.  Isn't  her  dress 
quite  delightful?" 

"Delightful,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "I  wonder  now  whether 
she  paints.    Did  you  ever  see  such  colour?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Lady  De  Courcy ;  "that  is,  I  have  no 
doubt  she  does.  But,  Mrs.  Proudie,  who  is  that  woman 
on  the  sofa  by  the  window?  just  step  this  way  and  you'll  see 

her,  there "  and  the  countess  led  her  to  a  spot  where 

she  could  plainly  see  the  signora's  well-remembered  face 
and  figure. 

She  did  not  however  do  so  without  being  equally  well 
seen  by  the  signora.  "Look,  look,"  said  that  lady  to  Mr. 
Slope,  who  was  still  standing  near  to  her;  "see  the  high 
spiritualities  and  temporalities  of  the  land  in  league  together, 
and  all  against  poor  me.  I'll  wager  my  bracelet,  Mr.  Slope, 
against  your  next  sermon,  that  they've  taken  up  their  posi- 
tion there  on  purpose  to  pull  me  to  pieces.  Well,  I  can't 
rush  to  the  combat,  but  I  know  how  to  protect  myself  if  the 
enemy  come  near  me." 

But  the  enemy  knew  better.  They  could  gain  nothing 
by  contact  with  the  Signora  Neroni,  and  they  could 
abuse  her  as  they  pleased  at  a  distance  from  her  on  the 
lawn. 

"She's  that  horrid  Italian  woman.  Lady  De  Courcy;  you 
must  have  heard  of  her." 

"What  Italian  woman?"  said  her  ladyship,  quite  alive  to 
the  coming  story;  "I  don't  think  I've  heard  of  any  Italian 

364 


A    MEETING   AT    ULLATHORNE. 

woman  coming  into  the  country.  She  doesn't  look  Italian 
either." 

"Oh,  you  must  have  heard  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"No,  she's  not  absolutely  Italian.  She  is  Dr.  Stanhope's 
daughter — Dr.  Stanhope  the  prebendary;  and  she  calls  her- 
self the  Signora  Neroni." 

"Oh-h-h-h !"  exclaimed  the  countess. 

"I  was  sure  you  had  heard  of  her,"  continued  Mrs. 
Proudie.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  her  husband.  They 
do  say  that  some  man  named  Neroni  is  still  alive.  I  believe 
she  did  marry  such  a  man  abroad,  but  I  do  not  at  all  know 
who  or  what  he  was." 

"Ah-h-h-h !"  said  the  countess,  shaking  her  head  with 
much  intelligence,  as  every  additional  "h"  fell  from  her  lips. 
"I  know  all  about  it  now.  I  have  heard  George  mention  her. 
George  knows  all  about  her.  George  heard  about  her  in 
Rome." 

"She's  an  abominable  woman,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"Insufferable,"  said  the  countess. 

"She  made  her  way  into  the  palace  once,  before  I  knew 
anything  about  her;  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  dreadfully 
indecent  her  conduct  was." 

"Was  it?"  said  the  delighted  countess. 

"Insufferable,"  said  the  prelatess. 

"But  why  does  she  lie  on  a  sofa?"  asked  Lady  De 
Courcy. 

"She  has  only  one  leg,"  replied  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"Only  one  leg!"  said  Lady  De  Courcy,  who  felt  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  dissatisfied  that  the  signora  was  thus  incapaci- 
tated.    "Was  she  born  so?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie, — and  her  ladyship  felt  some- 
what recomforted  by  the  assurance, — "she  had  two.  But 
that  Signor  Neroni  beat  her,  I  believe,  till  she  was  obliged 
to  have  one  amputated.  At  any  rate,  she  entirely  lost  the 
use  of  it." 

"Unfortunate  creature!"  said  the  countess,  who  herself 
knew  something  of  matrimonial  trials. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie;  "one  would  pity  her,  in  spite 
of  her  past  bad  conduct,  if  she  now  knew  how  to  behave 

365 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

herself.    But  she  does  not.    She  is  the  most  insolent  creature 
I  ever  put  my  eyes  on." 

"Indeed  she  is,"  said  Lady  De  Courcy. 

"And  her  conduct  with  men  is  so  abominable,  that  she  is 
not  fit  to  be  admitted  into  any  lady's  drawing-room." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  countess,  becoming  again  excited, 
happy,  and  merciless. 

"You  saw  that  man  standing  near  her, — the  clergyman 
with  the  red  hair?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"She  has  absolutely  ruined  that  man.  The  bishop,  or  I 
should  rather  take  the  blame  on  myself,  for  it  was  I, — I 
brought  him  down  from  London  to  Barchester.  He  is  a 
tolerable  preacher,  an  active  young  man,  and  I  therefore 
introduced  him  to  the  bishop.  That  woman,  Lady  De 
Courcy,  has  got  hold  of  him,  and  has  so  disgraced  him,  that 
I  am  forced  to  require  that  he  shall  leave  the  palace ;  and  I 
doubt  very  much  whether  he  won't  lose  his  gown." 

"Why  what  an  idiot  the  man  must  be !"  said  the  countess. 

"You  don't  know  the  intriguing  villany  of  that  woman," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie,  remembering  her  torn  flounces. 

"But  you  say  she  has  only  got  one  leg!" 

"She  is  as  full  of  mischief  as  tho'  she  had  ten.  Look  at 
her  eyes,  Lady  De  Courcy.  Did  you  ever  see  such  eyes  in 
a  decent  woman's  head?" 

"Indeed  I  never  did,  Mrs.  Proudie." 

"And  her  efifrontery,  and  her  voice;  I  quite  pity  her  poor 
father,  who  is  really  a  good  sort  of  man." 

"Dr.  Stanhope,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  Dr.  Stanhope.  He  is  one  of  our  prebendaries, — a 
good  quiet  sort  of  man  himself.  But  I  am  surprised  that  he 
should  let  his  daughter  conduct  herself  as  she  does." 

"I  suppose  he  can't  help  it,"  said  the  countess. 

"But  a  clergyman,  you  know,  Lady  De  Courcy !  He 
should  at  any  rate  prevent  her  from  exhibiting  in  public,  if 
he  cannot  induce  her  to  behave  at  home.  But  he  is  to  be 
pitied.  I  believe  he  has  a  desperate  life  of  it  with  the  lot  of 
them.  That  apish-looking  man  there,  with  the  long  beard 
and  the  loose  trousers, — he  is  the  woman's  brother.  He  is 
nearly  as  bad  as  she  is.    They  are  both  of  them  infidels." 

366 


A    MEETING   AT    ULLATHORNE. 

"Infidels !"  said  Lady  De  Courcy,  "and  their  father  a  pre- 
bendary !" 

"Yes,  and  likely  to  be  the  new  dean  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"Oh,  yes,  poor  dear  Dr.  Trefoil !"  said  the  countess,  who 
had  once  in  her  life  spoken  to  that  gentleman ;  "I  was  so 
distressed  to  hear  it,  Mrs.  Proudie.  And  so  Dr.  Stanhope 
is  to  be  the  new  dean !  He  comes  of  an  excellent  family, 
and  I  wish  him  success  in  spite  of  his  daughter.  Perhaps, 
Mrs.  Proudie,  when  he  is  dean  they'll  be  better  able  to  see 
the  error  of  their  ways." 

To  this  Mrs.  Proudie  said  nothing.  Her  dislike  of  the 
Signora  Neroni  was  too  deep  to  admit  of  her  even  hoping 
that  that  lady  should  see  the  error  of  her  ways.  Mrs. 
Proudie  looked  on  the  signora  as  one  of  the  lost, — one  of 
those  beyond  the  reach  of  Christian  charity,  and  was  there- 
fore able  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  hating  her,  without  the 
drawback  of  wishing  her  eventually  well  out  of  her  sins. 

Any  further  conversation  between  these  congenial  souls 
was  prevented  by  the  advent  of  Mr.  Thorne,  who  came  to 
lead  the  countess  to  the  tent.  Indeed,  he  had  been  desired 
to  do  so  some  ten  minutes  since;  but  he  had  been  delayed 
in  the  drawing-room  by  the  signora.  She  had  contrived  to 
detain  him,  to  get  him  near  to  her  sofa,  and  at  last  to  make 
him  seat  himself  on  a  chair  close  to  her  beautiful  arm.  The 
fish  took  the  bait,  was  hooked,  and  caught,  and  landed. 
Within  that  ten  minutes  he  had  heard  the  whole  of  the 
signora's  history  in  such  strains  as  she  chose  to  use  in  telling 
it.  He  learnt  from  the  lady's  own  lips  the  whole  of  that 
mysterious  tale  to  which  the  Honourable  George  had  mere- 
ly alluded.  He  discovered  that  the  beautiful  creature  lying 
before  him  had  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  She 
had  owned  to  him  that  she  had  been  weak,  confiding  and 
indifferent  to  the  world's  opinion,  and  that  she  had  there- 
fore been  ill-used,  deceived  and  evil  spoken  of.  She  had 
spoken  to  him  of  her  mutilated  limb,  her  youth  destroyed 
in  its  fullest  bloom,  her  beauty  robbed  of  its  every  charm, 
her  life  blighted,  her  hopes  withered;  and  as  she  did  so,  a 
tear  dropped  from  her  eye  to  her  cheek.  She  had  told  him 
of  these  things,  and  asked  for  his  sympathy. 

367 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

What  could  a  good-natured  genial  Anglo-Saxon  Squire 
Thorne  do  but  promise  to  sympathise  with  her?  Mr.  Thorne 
did  promise  to  sympathise;  promised  also  to  come  and  see 
the  last  of  the  Neros,  to  hear  more  of  those  fearful  Roman 
days,  of  those  light  and  innocent  but  dangerous  hours  which 
flitted  by  so  fast  on  the  shores  of  Como,  and  to  make  himself 
the  confidant  of  the  signora's  sorrows. 

We  need  hardly  say  that  he  dropped  all  idea  of  warning 
his  sister  against  the  dangerous  lady.  He  had  been  mis- 
taken; never  so  much  mistaken  in  his  life.  He  had  always 
regarded  that  Honourable  George  as  a  coarse  brutal-minded 
young  man;  now  he  was  more  convinced  than  ever  that  he 
was  so.  It  was  by  such  men  as  the  Honourable  George  that 
the  reputations  of  such  women  as  Madeline  Neroni  were 
imperilled  and  damaged.  He  would  go  and  see  the  lady  in 
her  own  house;  he  was  fully  sure  in  his  own  mind  of  the 
soundness  of  his  own  judgment;  if  he  found  her,  as  he  be- 
lieved he  should  do,  an  injured  well-disposed  warm-hearted 
woman,  he  would  get  his  sister  Monica  to  invite  her  out  to 
Ullathorne. 

"No,"  said  she,  as  at  her  instance  he  got  up  to  leave  her, 
and  declared  that  he  himself  would  attend  upon  her  wants ; 
"no,  no,  my  friend ;  I  positively  put  a  veto  upon  your  doing 
so.  What,  in  your  own  house,  with  an  assemblage  round 
you  such  as  there  is  here!  Do  you  wish  to  make  every 
woman  hate  me  and  every  man  stare  at  me  ?  I  lay  a  positive 
order  on  you  not  to  come  near  me  again  to-day.  Come  and 
see  me  at  home.  It  is  only  at  home  that  I  can  talk ;  it  is  only 
at  home  that  I  really  can  live  and  enjoy  myself.  My  days 
of  going  out,  days  such  as  these,  are  rare  indeed.  Come 
and  see  me  at  home,  Mr.  Thome,  and  then  I  will  not  bid 
you  to  leave  me." 

It  is,  we  believe,  common  with  young  men  of  five  and 
twenty  to  look  on  their  seniors — on  men  of,  say  double  their 
own  age —  as  so  many  stocks  and  stones, — stocks  and  stones, 
that  is,  in  regard  to  feminine  beauty.  There  never  was  a 
greater  mistake.  Women,  indeed,  generally  know  better; 
but  on  this  subject  men  of  one  age  are  thoroughly  ignorant 
of  what  is  the  very  nature  of  mankind  of  other  ages.  No 
experience  of   what  goes  on  in  the   world,   no   reading  of 

368 


A    MEETING   AT    ULLATHORNE. 

history,  no  observation  of  life,  has  any  effect  in  teaching  the 
truth.  Men  of  fifty  don't  dance  mazurkas,  being  generally 
too  fat  and  wheezy ;  nor  do  they  sit  for  the  hour  together 
on  river  banks  at  their  mistresses'  feet,  being  somewhat  afraid 
of  rheumatism.  But  for  real  true  love,  love  at  first  sight, 
love  to  devotion,  love  that  robs  a  man  of  his  sleep,  love  that 
"will  gaze  an  eagle  blind,"  love  that  "will  hear  the  lowest 
sound  when  the  suspicious  tread  of  theft  is  stopped,"  love 
that  is  "like  a  Hercules,  still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperi- 
des," — we  believe  the  best  age  is  from  forty-five  to  seventy; 
up  to  that,  men  are  generally  given  to  mere  flirting. 

At  the  present  moment  Mr.  Thorne,  cctat  fifty,  was  over 
head  and  ears  in  love  at  first  sight  with  the  Signora  Made- 
line Vesey  Neroni,  nata  Stanhope. 

Nevertheless  he  was  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  offer 
his  arm  with  all  propriety  to  Lady  De  Courcy,  and  the 
countess  graciously  permitted  herself  to  be  led  to  the  tent. 
Such  had  been  Miss  Thome's  orders,  as  she  had  succeeded 
in  inducing  the  bishop  to  lead  old  Lady  Knowle  to  the  top 
of  the  dining-room.  One  of  the  baronets  was  sent  off  in 
quest  of  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  found  that  lady  on  the  lawn  not 
in  the  best  of  humours.  Mr.  Thorne  and  the  countess  had 
left  her  too  abruptly;  she  had  in  vain  looked  about  for  an 
attendant  chaplain,  or  even  a  stray  curate;  they  were  all 
drawing  long  bows  with  the  young  ladies  at  the  bottom  of 
the  lawn,  or  finding  places  for  their  graceful  co-toxophilites 
in  some  snug  corner  of  the  tent.  In  such  position  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  been  wont  in  earlier  days  to  fall  back  upon 
Mr.  Slope;  but  now  she  could  never  fall  back  upon  him 
again.  She  gave  her  head  one  shake  as  she  thought  of  her 
lone  position,  and  that  shake  was  as  good  as  a  week  de- 
ducted from  Mr.  Slope's  longer  sojourn  in  Barchester.  Sir 
Harkaway  Gorse,  however,  relieved  her  present  misery, 
though  his  doing  so  by  no  means  mitigated  the  sinning  chap- 
lain's doom. 

And  now  the  eating  and  drinking  began  in  earnest.  Dr. 
Grantly,  to  his  great  horror,  found  himself  leagued  to  Mrs. 
Clantantram.  Mrs.  Clantantram  had  a  great  regard  for  the 
archdeacon,  which  was  not  cordially  returned;  and  when 
she,  coming  up  to  him,  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Come,  arch- 
2*  369 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

deacon,  I'm  sure  you  won't  begrudge  an  old  friend  the  fa- 
vour of  your  arm,"  and  then  proceeded  to  tell  him  the  whole 
history  of  her  roquelaure,  he  resolved  that  he  would  shake 
her  off  before  he  was  fifteen  minutes  older.  But  latterly 
the  archdeacon  had  not  been  successful  in  his  resolutions ; 
and  on  the  present  occasion  Mrs.  Clantantram  stuck  to  him 
till  the  banquet  was  over. 

Dr.  Gwynne  got  a  baronet's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Grantly  fell  to 
the  lot  of  a  baronet.  Charlotte  Stanhope  attached  herself  to 
Mr.  Harding  in  order  to  make  room  for  Bertie,  who  suc- 
ceeded in  sitting  down  in  the  dining-room  next  to  Mrs.  Bold. 
To  speak  sooth,  now  that  he  had  love  in  earnest  to  make, 
his  heart  almost   failed  him. 

Eleanor  had  been  right  glad  to  avail  herself  of  his  arm, 
seeing  that  Mr.  Slope  was  hovering  nigh  her.  In  striving 
to  avoid  that  terrible  Charybdis  of  a  Slope  she  was  in  great 
danger  of  falling  into  an  unseen  Scylla  on  the  other  hand, 
that  Scylla  being  Bertie  Stanhope.  Nothing  could  be  more 
gracious  than  she  was  to  Bertie.  She  almost  jumped  at  his 
proffered  arm.  Charlotte  perceived  this  from  a  distance, 
and  triumphed  in  her  heart;  Bertie  felt  it,  and  was  encour- 
aged; Mr.  Slope  saw  it,  and  glowered  with  jealousy.  Elea- 
nor and  Bertie  sat  down  to  table  in  the  dining-room ;  and 
as  she  took  her  seat  at  his  right  hand,  she  found  that  Mr. 
Slope  was  already  in  possession  of  the  chair  at  her  own. 

As  these  things  were  going  on  in  the  dining-room,  Mr. 
Arabin  was  hanging  enraptured  and  alone  over  the  signora's 
sofa ;  and  Eleanor  from  her  seat  could  look  through  the 
open  door  and  see  that  he  was  doing  so. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

THE   BISHOP  BREAKFASTS,   AND   THE   DEAN   DIES. 

THE  bishop  of  Barchester  said  grace  over  the  well- 
spread  board  in  the  Ullathorne  dining-room;  and 
while  he  did  so  the  last  breath  was  flying  from  the  dean  of 
Barchester  as  he  lay  in  his  sick  room  in  the  deanery.  When 
the  bishop  of  Barchester  raised  his  first  glass  of  champagne 

370 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

to  his  lips,  the  deanship  of  Barchester  was  a  good  thing  in 
the  gift  of  the  prime  minister.  Before  the  bishop  of  Bar- 
chester had  left  the  table,  the  minister  of  the  day  was  made 
aware  of  the  fact  at  his  country  seat  in  Hampshire,  and  had 
already  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  names  of  five  very  re- 
spectable aspirants  for  the  preferment.  It  is  at  present  only 
necessary  to  say  that  Mr.  Slope's  name  was  not  among  the 
five. 

"'Twas  merry  in  the  hall  when  the  beards  wagged  all"; 
and  the  clerical  beards  wagged  merrily  in  the  hall  of  Ulla- 
thorne  that  day.  It  was  not  till  after  the  last  cork  had  been 
drawn,  the  last  speech  made,  the  last  nut  cracked,  .that  tid- 
ings reached  and  were  whispered  about  that  the  poor  dean 
was  no  more.  It  was  well  for  the  happiness  of  the  clerical 
beards  that  this  little  delay  took  place,  as  otherwise  decency 
would  have  forbidden  them  to  wag  at  all. 

But  there  was  one  sad  man  among  them  that  day.  Mr. 
Arabin's  beard  did  not  wag  as  it  should  have  done.  He  had 
come  there  hoping  the  best,  striving  to  think  the  best,  about 
Eleanor;  turning  over  in  his  mind  all  the  words  he  remem- 
bered to  have  fallen  from  her  about  Mr.  Slope,  and  trying  to 
gather  from  them  a  conviction  unfavourable  to  his  rival.  He 
had  not  exactly  resolved  to  come  that  day  to  some  decisive 
proof  as  to  the  widow's  intention ;  but  he  had  meant,  if  pos- 
sible, to  re-cultivate  his  friendship  with  Eleanor;  and  in  his 
present  frame  of  mind  any  such  re-cultivation  must  have 
ended  in  a  declaration  of  love. 

He  had  passed  the  previous  night  alone  at  his  new  parson- 
age, and  it  was  the  first  night  that  he  had  so  passed.  It  had 
been  dull  and  sombre  enough.  Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  right 
in  saying  that  a  priestess  would  be  wanting  at  St.  Ewold's. 
He  had  sat  there  alone  with  his  glass  before  him,  and  then 
with  his  teapot,  thinking  about  Eleanor  Bold.  As  is  usual 
in  such  meditations,  he  did  little  but  blame  her ;  blame  her 
for  liking  Mr.  Slope,  and  blame  her  for  not  liking  him ; 
blame  her  for  her  cordiality  to  himself,  and  blame  her  for 
her  want  of  cordiality;  blame  her  for  being  stubborn,  head- 
strong, and  passionate;  and  vet  the  more  he  thoufht  of  her 
the  higher  she  rose  in  his  aflFection.  If  onlv  it  should  turn 
out,  if  only  it  could  be  made  to  turn  out,  that  she  had  de- 

371 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

fended  Mr.  Slope,  not  from  love,  but  on  principle,  all  would 
be  right.  Such  principle  in  itself  would  be  admirable,  love- 
able,  womanly ;  he  felt  that  he  could  be  pleased  to  allow  Mr. 

Slope  just  so  much  favour  as  that.     But  if And  then 

Mr.  Arabin  poked  his  fire  most  unnecessarily,  spoke  crossly 
to  his  new  parlour-maid  who  came  in  for  the  tea-things,  and 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  determined  to  go  to  sleep. 
Why  had  she  been  so  stiffnecked  when  asked  a  plain  ques- 
tion? She  could  not  but  have  known  in  what  light  he  re- 
garded her.  Why  had  she  not  answered  a  plain  question, 
and  so  pvit  an  end  to  his  misery?  Then,  instead  of  going 
to  sleep  in  his  arm-chair,  Mr.  Arabin  walked  about  the  room 
as  though  he  had  been  possessed. 

On  the  following  morning,  when  he  attended  Miss 
Thome's  behests  he  was  still  in  a  somewhat  confused  state. 
His  first  duty  had  been  to  converse  with  Mrs.  Clantantram, 
and  that  lady  had  found  it  impossible  to  elicit  the  slightest 
sympathy  from  him  on  the  subject  of  her  roquelaure.  Miss 
Thorne  had  asked  him  whether  Mrs.  Bold  was  coming 
with  the  Grantlys ;  and  the  two  names  of  Bold  and 
Grantly  together  had  nearly  made  him  jump  from  his 
seat. 

He  was  in  this  state  of  confused  uncertainty,  hope,  and 
doubt,  when  he  saw  Mr.  Slope,  with  his  most  polished  smile, 
handing  Eleanor  out  of  her  carriage.  He  thought  of  noth- 
ing more.  He  never  considered  whether  the  carriage  be- 
longed to  her  or  to  Mr.  Slope,  or  to  any  one  else  to  whom 
they  might  both  be  mutually  obliged  without  any  concert 
between  themselves.  This  sight  in  his  present  state  of  mind 
was  quite  enough  to  upset  him  and  his  resolves.  It  was 
clear  as  noonday.  Had  he  seen  her  handed  into  a  carriage 
by  Mr.  Slope  at  a  church  door  with  a  white  veil  over  her 
head,  the  truth  could  not  be  more  manifest.  He  went  into 
the  house,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  soon  found  himself  walking 
with  Mr.  Harding.  Shortly  afterwards  Eleanor  came  up; 
and  then  he  had  to  leave  his  companion,  and  either  go  about 
alone  or  find  another.  While  in  this  state  he  was  encoun- 
tered by  the  archdeacon. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Dr.  Grantly,  "if  it  be  true  that  Mr.  Slope 
and  Mrs.  Bold  came  here  together.     Susan  says  she  is  al- 

372 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

most  sure  she  saw  their  faces  in  the  same  carriage  as  she  got 
out  of  her  own." 

Mr.  Arabin  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  bear  his  testimony  to 
the  correctness  of  Mrs.  Grantly's  eyesight. 

"It  is  perfectly  shameful,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "or  I 
should  rather  say,  shameless.  She  was  asked  here  as  my 
guest;  and  if  she  be  determined  to  disgrace  herself,  she 
should  have  feeling  enough  not  to  do  so  before  my  immedi- 
ate friends.  I  wonder  how  that  man  got  himself  invited.  I 
wonder  whether  she  had  the  face  to  bring  him." 

To  this  Mr.  Arabin  could  answer  nothing,  nor  did  he  wish 
to  answer  anything.  Though  he  abused  Eleanor  to  himself, 
he  did  not  choose  to  abuse  her  to  any  one  else,  nor  was  he 
well  pleased  to  hear  any  one  else  speak  ill  of  her.  Dr. 
Grantly,  however,  was  very  angry,  and  did  not  spare  his 
sister-in-law.  Mr.  Arabin  therefore  left  him  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  wandered  back  into  the.  house. 

He  had  not  been  there  long,  when  the  signora  was  brought 
in.  For  some  time  he  kept  himself  out  of  temptation,  and 
merely  hovered  round  her  at  a  distance;  but  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Thome  had  left  her,  he  yielded  himself  up  to  the  basilisk, 
and  allowed  himself  to  be  made  prey  of. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  the  knowledge  had  been  ac- 
quired, but  the  signora  had  a  sort  of  instinctive  knowledge 
that  Mr.  Arabin  was  an  admirer  of  Mrs.  Bold.  Men  hunt 
foxes  by  the  aid  of  dogs,  and  are  aware  that  they  do  so  by 
the  strong  organ  of  smell  with  which  the  dog  is  endowed. 
They  do  not,  however,  in  the  least  comprehend  how  such  a 
sense  can  work  with  such  acuteness.  The  organ  by  which 
women  instinctively,  as  it  were,  know  and  feel  how  other 
women  are  regarded  by  men,  and  how  also  men  are  regarded 
by  other  women,  is  equally  strong,  and  equally  incompre- 
hensible. A  glance,  a  word,  a  motion,  suffices :  by  some 
such  acute  exercise  of  her  feminine  senses  the  signora  was 
aware  that  Mr.  Arabin  loved  Eleanor  Bold;  and  therefore, 
by  a  further  exercise  of  her  peculiar  feminine  propensities, 
it  was  quite  natural  for  her  to  entrap  Mr.  Arabin  into  her 
net. 

The  work  was  half  done  before  she  came  to  Ullathorne, 
and  when  could  she  have  a  better  opportunity  of  completing 

373 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

it?  She  had  had  almost  enough  of  Mr.  Slope,  though  she 
could  not  quite  resist  the  fun  of  driving  a  very  sanctimonious 
clergyman  to  madness  by  a  desperate  and  ruinous  passion. 
Mr.  Thorne  had  fallen  too  easily  to  give  much  pleasure  in 
the  chase.  His  position  as  a  man  of  wealth  might  make  his 
alliance  of  value,  but  as  a  lover  he  was  very  second-rate.  We 
may  say  that  she  regarded  him  somewhat  as  a  sportsman 
does  a  pheasant.  The  bird  is  so  easily  shot,  that  he  would 
not  be  worth  the  shooting  were  it  not  for  the  very  respect- 
able appearance  that  he  makes  in  a  larder.  The  signora 
would  not  waste  much  time  in  shooting  Mr.  Thorne,  but 
still  he  was  worth  bagging  for  family  uses. 

But  Mr.  Arabin  was  game  of  another  sort.  The  signora 
was  herself  possessed  of  quite  sufficient  intelligence  to  know 
that  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  man  more  than  usually  intellectual. 
She  knew  also,  that  as  a  clergyman  he  was  of  a  much  higher 
stamp  than  Mr.  Slope,  and  that  as  a  gentleman  he  was  better 
educated  than  Mr.  Thorne.  She  would  never  have  attempt- 
ed to  drive  Mr.  Arabin  into  ridiculous  misery  as  she  did  Mr. 
Slope,  nor  would  she  think  it  possible  to  dispose  of  him  in  ten 
minutes,  as  she  had  done  with  Mr.  Thorne. 

Such  were  her  reflections  about  Mr.  Arabin.  As  to  Mr. 
Arabin,  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  reflected  at  all  about  the 
signora.  He  knew  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  he  felt  that 
she  was  able  to  charm  him.  He  required  charming  in  his 
present  misery,  and  therefore  he  went  and  stood  at  the  head 
of  her  couch.  She  knew  all  about  it.  Such  were  her  pecu- 
liar gifts.  It  was  her  nature  to  see  that  he  required  charm- 
ing, and  it  was  her  province  to  charm  him.  As  the  Eastern 
idler  swallows  his  dose  of  opium,  as  the  London  reprobate 
swallows  his  dose  of  gin,  so  with  similar  desires  and  for 
similar  reasons  did  Mr.  Arabin  prepare  to  swallow  the 
charms  of  the  Signora  Neroni. 

"Why  an't  you  shooting  with  bows  and  arrows,  Mr.  Ara- 
bin?" said  she,  when  they  were  nearly  alone  together  in  the 
drawing-room ;  "or  talking  with  young  ladies  in  shady  bow- 
ers, or  turning  your  talents  to  account  in  some  way?  What 
was  a  bachelor  like  you  asked  here  for?  Don't  you  mean  to 
earn  yovir  cold  chicken  and  champagne?  Were  I  you,  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  be  so  idle." 

374 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

Mr.  Arabin  murmured  some  sort  of  answer.  Though  he 
wished  to  be  charmed,  he  was  hardly  yet  in  a  mood  to  be 
playful  in  return. 

"Why,  what  ails  you,  Mr.  Arabin?"  said  she.  "Here  you 
are  in  your  own  parish ;  Miss  Thorne  tells  me  that  her  party 
is  given  expressly  in  your  honour ;  and  yet  you  are  the  only 
dull  man  at  it.  Your  friend  Mr.  Slope  was  with  me  a  few 
minutes  since,  full  of  life  and  spirits ;  why  don't  you  rival 
him  ?" 

It  was  not  difficult  for  so  acute  an  observer  as  Madeline 
Neroni  to  see  that  she  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  and  driven 
the  bolt  home.  Mr.  Arabin  winced  visibly  before  her  attack, 
and  she  knew  at  once  that  he  was  jealous  of  Mr.  Slope. 

"But  I  look  on  you  and  Mr.  Slope  as  the  very  antipodes 
of  men,"  said  she.  "There  is  nothing  in  which  you  are  not 
each  the  reverse  of  the  other,  except  in  belonging  to  the  same 
profession ;  and  even  in  that  you  are  so  unlike  as  perfectly 
to  maintain  the  rule.  He  is  gregarious,  you  are  given  to 
solitude.  He  is  active,  you  are  passive.  He  works,  you 
think.  He  likes  women,  you  despise  them.  He  is  fond  of 
position  and  power,  and  so  are  you,  but  for  directly  different 
reasons.  He  loves  to  be  praised,  you  very  foolishly  abhor  it. 
He  will  gain  his  rewards,  which  will  be  an  insipid,  useful 
wife,  a  comfortable  income,  and  a  reputation  for  sanctimony. 
You  will  also  gain  yours." 

"Well,  and  what  will  they  be?"  said  Mr.  Arabin,  who  knew 
that  he  was  being  flattered,  and  yet  suffered  himself  to  put  up 
with  it.     "What  will  be  my  rewards?" 

"The  heart  of  some  woman  whom  you  will  be  too  austere 
to  own  that  you  love,  and  the  respect  of  some  few  friends 
which  you  will  be  too  proud  to  own  that  you  value." 

"Rich  rewards,"  said  he;  "but  of  little  worth  if  they  are 
to  be  so  treated." 

"Oh,  you  are  not  to  look  for  such  success  as  awaits  Mr. 
Slope.  He  is  born  to  be  a  successful  man.  He  suggests  to 
himself  an  object,  and  then  starts  for  it  with  eager  intention. 
Nothing  will  deter  him  from  his  pursuit.  He  will  have  no 
scruples,  no  fears,  no  hesitation.  His  desire  is  to  be  a  bishop 
with  a  rising  family ;  the  wife  will  come  first,  and  in  due  time 

the  apron.     You  will  see  all  this,  and  then " 

375 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Well,  and  what  then?" 

"Then  you  will  begin  to  wish  that  you  had  done  the 
same." 

Mr.  Arabin  looked  placidly  out  at  the  lawn,  and  resting  his 
shoulder  on  the  head  of  the  sofa,  rubbed  his  chin  with  his 
hand.  It  was  a  trick  he  had  when  he  was  thinking  deeply; 
and  what  the  signora  said  made  him  think.  Was  it  not  all 
true?  Would  he  not  hereafter  look  back,  if  not  at  Mr,  Slope, 
at  some  others,  perhaps  not  equally  gifted  with  himself,  who 
had  risen  in  the  world  while  he  had  lagged  behind,  and  then 
wish  that  he  had  done  the  same? 

"Is  not  such  the  doom  of  all  speculative  men  of  talent?" 
said  she.  "Do  they  not  all  sit  rapt  as  you  now  are,  cutting 
imaginary  silken  cords  with  their  fine  edges,  while  those  not 
so  highly  tempered  sever  the  every-day  Gordian  knots  of  the 
world's  struggle  and  win  wealth  and  renown?  Steel  too 
highly  polished,  edges  too  sharp,  do  not  do  for  this  world's 
work,  Mr.  Arabin." 

Who  was  this  woman  that  thus  read  the  secrets  of  his 
heart,  and  re-uttered  to  him  the  unwelcome  bodings  of  his 
own  soul?  He  looked  full  into  her  face  when  she  had  done 
speaking,  and  said,  "Am  I  one  of  those  foolish  blades,  too 
sharp  and  too  fine  to  do  a  useful  day's  work  ?" 

"Why  do  you  let  the  Slopes  of  the  world  out-distance 
you  ?"  said  she.  "Is  not  the  blood  in  your  veins  as  warm  as 
his?  does  not  your  pulse  beat  as  fast?  Has  not  God  made 
you  a  man,  and  intended  you  to  do  a  man's  work  here,  ay, 
and  to  take  a  man's  wages  also?" 

Mr.  Arabin  sat  ruminating  and  rubbing  his  face,  and  won- 
dering why  these  things  were  said  to  him ;  but  he  replied  noth- 
ing.    The  signora  went  on — 

"The  greatest  mistake  any  man  ever  made  is  to  suppose 
that  the  good  things  of  the  world  are  not  worth  the  winning. 
And  it  is  a  mistake  so  opposed  to  the  religion  which  you 
preach !  Why  does  God  permit  his  bishops  one  after  another 
to  have  their  five  thousands  and  ten  thousands  a  year  if  such 
wealth  be  bad  and  not  worth  having?  Why  are  beautiful 
things  given  to  us,  and  luxuries  and  pleasant  enjoyments,  if 
they  be  not  intended  to  be  used?  They  must  be  meant  for 
some  one,  and  what  is  good  for  a  layman  cannot  surely  be 

376 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

bad  for  a  clerk.     You  try  to  despise  these  good  things,  but 

you  only  try ;  you  don't  succeed." 

"Don't  I  ?"  said  Mr.  Arabin,  still  musing,  and  not  knowing 
what  he  said. 

"I  ask  you  the  question ;  do  you  succeed  ?" 

Mr.  Arabin  looked  at  her  piteously.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
though  he  were  being  interrogated  by  some  inner  spirit  of  his 
own,  to  whom  he  could  not  refuse  an  answer,  and  to  whom 
he  did  not  dare  to  give  a  false  reply. 

"Come,  Mr.  Arabin,  confess;  do  you  succeed?  Is  money 
so  contemptible?  Is  worldly  power  so  worthless?  Is  fem- 
inine beauty  a  trifle  to  be  so  lightly  regarded  by  a  wise  man  ?" 

"Feminine  beauty  !"  said  he,  gazing  into  her  face,  as  though 
all  the  feminine  beauty  in  the  world  were  concentrated  there. 
"Why  do  you  say  I  do  not  regard  it  ?" 

"If  you  look  at  me  like  that,  Mr.  Arabin,  I  shall  alter  my 
opinion — or  should  do  so,  were  I  not  of  course  aware  that  I 
have  no  beauty  of  my  own  worth  regarding." 

The  gentleman  blushed  crimson,  but  the  lady  did  not  blush 
at  all.  A  slightly  increased  colour  animated  her  face,  just 
so  much  so  as  to  give  her  an  air  of  special  interest.  She  ex- 
pected a  compliment  from  her  admirer,  but  she  was  rather 
grateful  than  otherwise  by  finding  that  he  did  not  pay  it  to 
her.  Messrs.  Slope  and  Thorne,  Messrs.  Brown,  Jones  and 
Robinson,  they  all  paid  her  compliments.  She  was  rather 
in  hopes  that  she  would  ultimately  succeed  in  inducing  Mr. 
Arabin  to  abuse  her. 

"But  your  gaze,"  said  she,  "is  one  of  wonder,  and  not  of 
admiration.  You  wonder  at  my  audacity  in  asking  you  such 
questions  about  yourself." 

"Well,  I  do  rather,"  said  he. 

"Nevertheless  I  expect  an  answer,  Mr.  Arabin.  Why 
were  women  made  beautiful  if  men  are  not  to  regard  them  ?" 

"But  men  do  regard  them,"  he  replied. 

"And  why  not  you  ?" 

"You  are  begging  the  question,  Madame  Neroni." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  beg  nothing,  Mr.  Arabin.  which  you  will 
not  grant,  and  I  do  beg  for  an  answer.  Do  you  not  as  a  rule 
think  women  below  your  notice  as  companions?  Let  us  see. 
There  is  the  widow  Bold  looking  round  at  you  from  her  chair 

377 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

this  minute.  What  would  you  say  to  her  as  a  companion 
for  life  ?" 

Mr.  Arabin,  rising  from  his  position,  leaned  over  the  sofa 
and  looked  through  the  drawing-room  door  to  the  place 
where  Eleanor  was  seated  between  Bertie  Stanhope  and  Mr. 
Slope.  She  at  once  caught  his  glance,  and  averted  her  own. 
She  was  not  pleasantly  placed  in  her  present  position.  Mr. 
Slope  was  doing  his  best  to  attract  her  attention ;  and  she  was 
striving  to  prevent  his  doing  so  by  talking  to  Mr.  Stanhope, 
while  her  mind  was  intently  fixed  on  Mr.  Arabin  and  Mad- 
ame Neroni.  Bertie  Stanhope  endeavoured  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  favours,  but  he  was  thinking  more  of  the  manner 
in  which  he  would  by-and-by  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  than 
of  amusing  her  at  the  present  moment. 

"There,"  said  the  signora.  "She  was  stretching  her  beau- 
tiful neck  to  look  at  you,  and  now  you  have  disturbed  her. 
Well  I  declare,  I  believe  I  am  wrong  about  you ;  I  believe  that 
you  do  think  Mrs.  Bold  a  charming  woman.  Your  looks 
seem  to  say  so;  and  by  her  looks  I  should  say  that  she  is 
jealous  of  me.  Come,  Mr.  Arabin,  confide  in  me,  and  if  it  is 
so,  I'll  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  up  the  match." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  signora  was  not  very  sincere 
in  her  offer.  She  was  never  sincere  on  such  subjects.  She 
never  expected  others  to  be  so,  nor  did  she  expect  others  to 
think  her  so.  Such  matters  were  her  playthings,  her  billiard 
table,  her  hounds  and  hunters,  her  waltzes  and  polkas,  her 
picnics  and  summer-day  excursions.  She  had  little  else  to 
amuse  her,  and  therefore  played  at  love-making  in  all  its 
forms.  She  was  now  playing  at  it  with  Mr.  Arabin,  and  did 
not  at  all  expect  the  earnestness  and  truth  of  his  answer. 

"All  in  your  power  would  be  nothing,"  said  he;  "for  Mrs. 
Bold  is,  I  imagine,  already  engaged  to  another." 

"Then  you  own  the  impeachment  yourself?" 

"You  cross-question  me  rather  unfairly,"  he  replied,  "and  I 
do  not  know  why  I  answer  you  at  all.  ]\Irs.  Bold  is  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  and  as  intelligent  as  beautiful.  It  is  im- 
possible to  know  her  without  admiring  her." 

"So  you  think  the  widow  a  verv  beautiful  woman?" 

"Indeed  I  do." 

"And  one  that  would  grace  the  parsonage  of  St.  Ewold's." 

378 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

"One  that  would  well  grace  any  man's  house." 

"And  you  really  have  the  effrontery  to  tell  me  this,"  said 
she;  "to  tell  me,  who,  as  you  very  well  know,  set  up  to  be  a 
beauty  myself,  and  who  am  at  this  very  moment  taking  such 
an  interest  in  your  affairs,  you  really  have  the  effrontery  to 
tell  me  that  Mrs.  Bold  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  you 
know." 

"I  did  not  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Arabin ;  "you  are  more  beauti- 
ful  " 

"Ah,  come  now,  that  is  something  like.  I  thought  you 
could  not  be  so  unfeeling." 

"You  are  more  beautiful,  perhaps  more  clever." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Arabin.  I  knew  that  you 
and  I  should  be  friends." 

"But " 

"Not  a  word  further.  I  will  not  hear  a  word  further.  If 
you  talk  till  midnight,  you  cannot  improve  what  you  have 
said." 

"But,  Madame  Neroni,  Mrs.  Bold " 

"I  will  not  hear  a  word  about  Mrs.  Bold.  Dread  thoughts 
of  strychnine  did  pass  across  my  brain,  but  she  is  welcome 
to  the  second  place." 

"Her  place " 

"I  won't  hear  anything  about  her  or  her  place.  I  am  satis- 
fied, and  that  is  enough.  But,  Mr.  Arabin,  I  am  dying  with 
hunger;  beautiful  and  clever  as  I  am,  you  know  I  cannot  go 
to  my  food,  and  yet  you  do  not  bring  it  to  me." 

This  at  any  rate  was  so  true  as  to  make  it  necessary  that 
Mr.  Arabin  should  act  upon  it,  and  he  accordingly  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  supplied  the  signora's  wants. 

"And  yourself?"  said  she. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "I  am  not  hungry;  I  never  eat  at  this  hour." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Arabin,  don't  let  love  interfere  with  your 
appetite.  It  never  does  with  mine.  Give  me  half  a  glass 
more  champagne,  and  then  go  to  the  table.  Mrs.  Bold  will 
do  me  an  injury  if  you  stay  talking  to  me  any  longer." 

Mr.  Arabin  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  took  her  plate  and  glass 
from  her.  and  going  into  the  dining-room,  helped  himself  to  a 
sandwich  from  the  crowded  table  and  began  munching  it  in  a 
corner. 

379 


Barchester  towers. 

As  he  was  doing  so,  Miss  Thorne,  who  had  hardly  sat  down 
for  a  moment,  came  into  the  room,  and  seeing  him  standing, 
was  greatly  distressed. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Arabin,"  said  she,  "have  you  never  sat 
down  yet?     I  am  so  distressed.     You  of  all  men  too." 

Mr.  Arabin  assured  her  that  he  had  only  just  come  into  the 
room. 

"That  is  the  very  reason  why  you  should  lose  no  more 
time.  Come,  I'll  make  room  for  you.  Thank  'ee,  my  dear," 
she  said,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Bold  was  making  an  attempt  to 
move  from  her  chair,  "but  I  would  not  for  worlds  see  you 
stir,  for  all  the  ladies  would  think  it  necessary  to  follow.  But, 
perhaps,  if  Mr.  Stanhope  has  done — just  for  a  minute,  Mr. 
Stanhope — till  I  can  get  another  chair." 

And  so  Bertie  had  to  rise  to  make  way  for  his  rival.  This 
he  did,  as  he  did  everything,  with  an  air  of  good-humoured 
pleasantry  which  made  it  impossible  for  Mr.  Arabin  to  refuse 
the  proffered  seat. 

"His  bishopric  let  another  take,"  said  Bertie ;  the  quotation 
being  certainly  not  very  appropriate,  either  for  the  occasion 
or  the  person  spoken  to.  "I  have  eaten  and  am  satisfied. 
Mr.  Arabin,  pray  take  my  chair.  I  wish  for  your  sake  that 
it  really  was  a  bishop's  seat." 

Mr.  Arabin  did  sit  down,  and  as  he  did  so,  Mrs.  Bold  got 
up  as  though  to  follow  her  neighbour. 

"Pray,  pray  don't  move,"  said  Miss  Thorne,  almost  forcing 
Eleanor  back  into  her  chair.  "Mr.  Stanhope  is  not  going  to 
leave  us.  He  will  stand  behind  you  like  a  true  knight  as  he 
is.  And  now  I  think  of  it,  Mr.  Arabin,  let  me  introduce  you 
to  Mr.  Slope.  Mr.  Slope,  Mr.  Arabin."  And  the  two  gen- 
tlemen bowed  stififly  to  each  other  across  the  lady  whom  they 
both  intended  to  marry,  while  the  other  gentleman  who  also 
intended  to  marry  her  stood  behind,  watching  them. 

The  two  had  never  met  each  other  before,  and  the  present 
was  certainly  not  a  good  opportunity  for  much  cordial  con- 
versation, even  if  cordial  conversation  between  them  had  been 
possible.  As  it  was,  the  whole  four  who  formed  the  party 
seemed  as  though  their  tongues  were  tied.  Mr.  Slope,  who 
was  wide  awake  to  what  he  hoped  was  his  coming  opportunity, 
was  not  much  concerned  in  the  interest  of  the  moment.    His 

380 


THE  BISHOP  BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  DEAN  DIES. 

wish  was  to  see  Eleanor  move,  that  he  might  pursue  her. 
Bertie  was  not  exactly  in  the  same  frame  of  mind ;  the  evil  day 
was  near  enough ;  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  precip- 
itate it.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  Eleanor  Bold  if 
he  could,  and  was  resolved  to-day  to  take  the  first  preliminary 
step  towards  doing  so.  But  there  was  time  enough  before 
him.  He  was  not  going  to  make  an  ofifer  of  marriage  over 
the  table-cloth.  Having  thus  good-naturedly  made  way  for 
Mr.  Arabin,  he  was  willing  also  to  let  him  talk  to  the  future 
Mrs.  Stanhope  as  long  as  they  remained  in  their  present 
position. 

Mr.  Arabin,  having  bowed  to  Mr.  Slope,  began  eating  his 
food  without  saying  a  word  further.  He  was  full  of  thought, 
and  though  he  ate  he  did  so  unconsciously. 

But  poor  Eleanor  was  the  most  to  be  pitied.  The  only 
friend  on  whom  she  thought  she  could  rely  was  Bertie  Stan- 
hope, and  he,  it  seemed,  was  determined  to  desert  her.  Mr. 
Arabin  did  not  attempt  to  address  her.  She  said  a  few  words 
in  reply  to  some  remarks  from  Mr.  Slope,  and  then  feeling  the 
situation  too  much  for  her,  started  from  her  chair  in  spite  of 
Miss  Thorne,  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Mr.  Slope  fol- 
lowed her,  and  young  Stanhope  lost  the  occasion. 

Madeline  Neroni,  when  she  was  left  alone,  could  not  help 
pondering  much  on  the  singular  interview  she  had  had  with 
this  singular  man.  Not  a  word  that  she  had  spoken  to  him 
had  been  intended  by  her  to  be  received  as  true,  and  yet  he 
had  answered  her  in  the  very  spirit  of  truth.  He  had  done 
so,  and  she  had  been  aware  that  he  had  so  done.  She  had 
wormed  from  him  his  secret;  and  he,  debarred  as  it  would 
seem  from  man's  usual  privilege  of  lying,  had  innocently  laid 
bare  his  whole  soul  to  her.  He  loved  Eleanor  Bold,  but  Elea- 
nor was  not  in  his  eye  so  beautiful  as  herself.  He  would  fain 
have  Eleanor  for  his  wife,  but  yet  he  had  acknowledeged  that 
she  was  the  less  gifted  of  the  two.  The  man  had  literally 
been  unable  to  falsify  his  thoughts  when  questioned,  and  had 
been  compelled  to  be  true  nialgre  lui,  even  when  truth  must 
have  been  so  disagreeable  to  him. 

This  teacher  of  men,  this  Oxford  pundit,  this  double-dis- 
tilled quintessence  of  university  perfection,  this  writer  of  re- 
ligious treatises,  this  speaker  of  ecclesiastical  speeches,  had 

381 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

been  like  a  little  child  in  her  hands ;  she  had  turned  him  inside 
out,  and  read  his  very  heart  as  she  might  have  done  that  of  a 
young  girl.  She  could  not  but  despise  him  for  his  facile 
openness,  and  yet  she  liked  him  for  it  too.  It  was  a  novelty 
to  her,  a  new  trait  in  a  man's  character.  She  felt  also  that 
she  could  never  so  completely  make  a  fool  of  him  as  she  did 
of  the  Slopes  and  Thornes.  She  felt  that  she  never  could  in- 
duce Mr.  Arabin  to  make  protestations  to  her  that  were  not 
true,  or  to  listen  to  nonsense  that  was  mere  nonsense. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  Mr,  Arabin  was  heartily  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Bold,  and  the  signora,  with  very  unwonted  good  nature, 
began  to  turn  it  over  in  her  mind  whether  she  could  not  do 
him  a  good  turn.  Of  course  Bertie  was  to  have  the  first 
chance.  It  was  an  understood  family  arrangement  that  her 
brother  was,  if  possible,  to  marry  the  widow  Bold.  Madeline 
knew  too  well  his  necessities  and  what  was  due  to  her  sister 
to  interfere  with  so  excellent  a  plan,  as  long  as  it  might  be 
feasible.  But  she  had  strong  suspicion  that  it  was  not  feas- 
ible. She  did  not  think  it  likely  that  Mrs.  Bold  would  accept 
a  man  in  her  brother's  position,  and  she  had  frequently  said 
so  to  Charlotte.  She  was  inclined  to  believe  that  Mr.  Slope 
had  more  chance  of  success  ;  and  with  her  it  would  be  a  labour 
of  love  to  rob  Mr.  Slope  of  his  wife. 

And  so  the  signora  resolved,  should  Bertie  fail,  to  do  a 
good-natured  act  for  once  in  her  life,  and  give  up  Mr.  Arabin 
to  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE   LOOKALOFTS   AND   THE   GREENACRES. 

ON  the  whole,  Miss  Thome's  provision  for  the  amusement 
and  feeding  of  the  outer  classes  in  the  exoteric  pad- 
dock was  not  unsuccessful. 

Two  little  drawbacks  to  the  general  happiness  did  take 
place,  but  they  were  of  a  temporary  nature,  and  apparent 
rather  than  real.  The  first  was  the  downfall  of  young  Harry 
Greenacre,  and  the  other  the  uprise  of  Mrs.  Lookaloft  and 
her  family. 

382 


THE  LOOKALOFTS  AND  THE  GREENACRES. 

As  to  the  quintain,  it  became  more  popular  among  the  boys 
on  foot,  than  it  would  ever  have  been  among  the  men  on 
horseback,  even  had  young  Greenacre  been  more  successful. 
It  was  twirled  round  and  round  till  it  was  nearly  twirled  out 
of  the  ground ;  and  the  bag  of  flour  was  used  with  great 
gusto  in  powdering  the  backs  and  heads  of  all  who  could  be 
coaxed  within  its  vicinity. 

Of  course  it  was  reported  all  through  the  assemblage  that 
Harry  was  dead,  and  there  was  a  pathetic  scene  between  him 
and  his  mother  when  it  was  found  that  he  had  escaped  scathe- 
less from  the  fall.  A  good  deal  of  beer  was  drunk  on  the 
occasion,  and  the  quintain  was  "dratted"  and  "bothered,"  and 
very  generally  anathematised  by  all  the  mothers  who  had 
yoting  sons  likely  to  be  placed  in  similar  jeopardy.  But  the 
affair  of  Mrs.  Lookaloft  was  of  a  more  serious  nature. 

"I  do  tell  'ee  plainly, — face  to  face, — she  be  there  in  mad- 
am's drawing-room ;  herself  and  Gussy,  and  them  two  wal- 
loping gals,  dressed  up  to  their  very  eyeses."  This  was  said 
by  a  very  positive,  very  indignant,  and  very  fat  farmer's  wife, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  end  of  a  bench  leaning  on  the  handle 
of  a  huge  cotton  umbrella. 

"But  you  didn't  zee  her.  Dame  Guffem  ?"  said  Mrs.  Green- 
acre,  whom  this  information,  joined  to  the  recent  peril  under- 
gone by  her  son,  almost  overpowered.  Mr.  Greenacre  held 
just  as  much  land  as  Mr.  Lookaloft,  paid  his  rent  quite  as 
punctually,  and  his  opinion  in  the  vestry-room  was  reckoned 
to  be  every  whit  as  good.  Mrs.  Lookaloft's  rise  in  the  world 
had  been  wormwood  to  Mrs.  Greenacre.  She  had  no  taste 
herself  for  the  sort  of  finery  which  had  converted  Barleystubb 
farm  into  Rosebank,  and  which  had  occasionally  graced  Mr. 
Lookaloft's  letters  with  the  dignity  of  esquirehood.  She  had 
no  wish  to  convert  her  own  homestead  into  Violet  Villa,  or  to 
see  her  goodman  go  about  with  a  new-fangled  handle  to  his 
name.  But  it  was  a  mortal  injury  to  her  that  Mrs.  Lookaloft 
should  be  successful  in  her  hunt  after  such  honours.  She 
had  abused  and  ridiculed  Mrs.  Lookaloft  to  the  extent  of  her 
little  power.  She  had  pushed  against  her  going  out  of  church, 
and  had  excused  herself  with  all  the  easiness  of  equality.  "Ah, 
dame,  I  axes  pardon ;  but  you  be  grown  so  mortal  stout  these 
times."     She  had  inquired  with  apparent  cordiality  of  Mr. 

383 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Lookaloft,  after  "the  woman  that  owned  him,"  and  had,  as 
she  thought,  been  on  the  whole  able  to  hold  her  own  pretty 
well  against  her  aspiring  neighbour.  Now,  however,  she 
found  herself  distinctly  put  into  a  separate  and  inferior  class. 
Mrs.  Lookaloft  was  asked  into  the  Ullathorne  drawing-room 
merely  because  she  called  her  house  Rosebank,  and  had  talked 
over  her  husband  into  buying  pianos  and  silk  dresses  instead 
of  putting  his  money  by  to  stock  farms  for  his  sons. 

Mrs,  Greenacre,  much  as  she  reverenced  Miss  Thorne,  and 
highly  as  she  respected  her  husband's  landlord,  could  not  but 
look  on  this  as  an  act  of  injustice  done  to  her  and  hers.  Hith- 
erto the  Lookalofts  had  never  been  recognised  as  being  of  a 
different  class  from  the  Greenacres.  Their  pretensions  were 
all  self-pretensions,  their  finery  was  all  paid  for  by  them- 
selves and  not  granted  to  them  by  others.  The  local  sove- 
reigns of  the  vicinity,  the  district  fountains  of  honour,  had 
hitherto  conferred  on  them  the  stamp  of  no  rank.  Hitherto 
their  crinoline  petticoats,  late  hours,  and  mincing  gait  had 
been  a  fair  subject  of  Mrs.  Greenacre's  raillery,  and  this  rail- 
lery had  been  a  safety  valve  for  her  envy.  Now,  however, 
and  from  henceforward,  the  case  would  be  very  different. 
Now  the  Lookalofts  would  boast  that  their  aspirations  had 
been  sanctioned  by  the  gentry  of  the  country ;  now  they  would 
declare  with  some  show  of  truth  that  their  claims  to  peculiar 
consideration  had  been  recognised.  They  had  sat  as  equal 
guests  in  the  presence  of  bishops  and  baronets ;  they  had  been 
curtseyed  to  by  Miss  Thorne  on  her  own  drawing-room  car- 
pet ;  they  were  about  to  sit  down  to  table  in  company  with  a 
live  countess !  Bab  Lookaloft,  as  she  had  always  been  called 
by  the  young  Greenacres  in  the  days  of  their  juvenile  equality, 
might  possibly  sit  next  to  the  Honourable  George,  and  that 
wretched  Gussy  might  be  permitted  to  hand  a  custard  to  the 
Lady  Margaretta  De  Courcy. 

The  fruition  of  those  honours,  or  such'  of  them  as  fell  to  the 
lot  of  the  envied  family,  was  not  such  as  should  have  caused 
much  envy.  The  attention  paid  to  the  Lookalofts  by  the  De 
Courcys  was  very  limited,  and  the  amount  of  entertainment 
which  they  received  from  the  bishop's  society  was  hardly  in 
itself  a  recompense  for  the  dull  monotony  of  their  day.  But 
of  what  they  endured  Mrs.  Greenacre  took  no  account;  she 

384 


THE  LOOKALOFTS  AND  THE  GREENACRES. 

thought  only  of  what  she  considered  they  must  enjoy,  and  of 
the  dreadfully  exalted  tone  of  living  which  would  be  mani- 
fested by  the  Rosebank  family,  as  the  consequence  of  their 
present  distinction. 

"But  did  'ee  zee  'em  there,  dame,  did  'ee  zee  'em  there  with 
your  own  eyes  ?"  asked  poor  Mrs.  Greenacre ;  still  hoping  that 
there  might  be  some  ground  for  doubt. 

"And  how  could  I  do  that,  unless  so  be  I  was  there  my- 
self?" asked  Mrs.  Gufifern.  "I  didn't  zet  eyes  on  none  of 
them  this  blessed  morning,  but  I  zee'd  them  as  did.  You 
know  our  John ;  well,  he  will  be  for  keeping  company  with 
Betsey  Rusk,  madam's  own  maid,  you  know.  And  Betsey 
isn't  none  of  your  common  kitchen  wenches.  So  Betsey,  she 
come  out  to  our  John,  you  know,  and  she's  always  vastly 
polite  to  me,  is  Betsey  Rusk,  I  must  say.  So  before  she 
took  so  much  as  one  turn  with  John,  she  told  me  every 
ha'porth  that  was  going  on  up  in  the  house." 

"Did  she  now?"  said  Mrs.  Greenacre. 

"Indeed  she  did,"  said  Mrs.  Guffem. 

"And  she  told  you  them  people  was  up  there  in  the  draw- 
ing-room ?" 

"She  told  me  she  zee'd  them  come  in, — that  they  was 
dressed  finer  by  half  nor  any  of  the  family,  with  all  their 
neckses  and  buzoms  stark  naked  as  a  born  babby." 

"The  minxes !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Greenacre,  who  felt  her- 
self more  put  about  by  this  than  any  other  mark  of  aristo- 
cratic distinction  which  her  enemies  had  assumed. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  continued  Mrs.  Guffern,  "as  naked  as  you 
please,  while  all  the  quality  was  dressed  just  as  you  and  I  be, 
Mrs.  Greenacre." 

"Drat  their  impudence,"  said  Mrs.  Greenacre,  from  whose 
well-covered  bosom  all  milk  of  human  kindness  was  reced- 
ing, as  far  as  the  family  of  the  Lookalofts  were  concerned. 

"So  says  I,"  said  Mrs.  Guffern ;  "and  so  says  my  good- 
man,  Thomas  Guffern,  when  he  heard  it.  'Molly,'  says  he 
to  me,  'if  ever  you  takes  to  going  about  o'  mornings  with 
yourself  all  naked  in  them  ways,  I  begs  you  won't  come  back 
no  more  to  the  old  house.'  So  says  I,  'Thomas,  no  more  I 
wull.'  'But,'  says  he,  'drat  it,  how  the  deuce  does  she  man- 
age with  her  rheumatiz,  and  she  not  a  rag  on  her  ?' "  and 

385 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

Mrs.  Guffern  laughed  loudly  as  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Look- 
aloft's  probable  sufferings  from  rheumatic  attacks. 

"But  to  liken  herself  that  way  to  folk  that  ha'  blood  in 
their  veins,"  said  Mrs.  Greenacre, 

"Well,  but  that  warn't  all  neither  that  Betsey  told.  There 
they  all  swelled  into  madam's  drawing-room,  like  so  many 
turkey  cocks,  as  much  as  to  say,  'and  who  dare  say  no  to 
us?'  and  Gregory  was  thinking  of  telling  of  'em  to  come 
down  here,  only  his  heart  failed  him  'cause  of  the  grand 
way  they  was  dressed.  So  in  they  went ;  but  madam  looked 
at  them  as  glum  as  death." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Greenacre,  greatly  relieved,  "so 
they  wasn't  axed  different  from  us  at  all  then?" 

"Betsey  says  that  Gregory  says  that  madam  wasn't  a  bit 
too  well  pleased  to  see  them  where  they  was,  and  that,  to 
his  believing,  they  was  expected  to  come  here  just  like  the 
rest  of  us." 

There  was  great  consolation  in  this.  Not  that  Mrs. 
Greenacre  was  altogether  satisfied.  She  felt  that  justice  to 
herself  demanded  that  Mrs.  Lookaloft  should  not  only  not 
be  encouraged,  but  that  she  should  also  be  absolutely  pun- 
ished. What  had  been  done  at  that  scriptural  banquet,  of 
which  Mrs.  Greenacre  so  often  read  the  account  to  her  fam- 
ily ?  Why  had  not  Miss  Thorne  boldly  gone  to  the  intruder 
and  said,  "Friend,  thou  hast  come  up  hither  to  high  places 
not  fitted  to  thee.  Go  down  lower,  and  thou  wilt  find  thy 
mates."  Let  the  Lookalofts  be  treated  at  the  present  mo- 
ment with  ever  so  cold  a  shoulder,  they  would  still  be  en- 
abled to  boast  hereafter  of  their  position,  their  aspirations, 
and  their  honour. 

"Well,  with  all  her  grandeur,  I  do  wonder  that  she  be  so 
mean,"  continued  Mrs.  Greenacre,  unable  to  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject. "Did  you  hear,  goodman?"  she  went  on,  about  to  re- 
peat the  whole  story  to  her  husband,  who  then  came  up. 
"There's  dame  Lookaloft  and  Bab  and  Gussy  and  the  lot  of 
'em  all  sitting  as  grand  as  fivepence  in  madam's  drawing- 
room,  and  they  not  axed  no  more  nor  you  nor  me.  Did  you 
ever  hear  tell  the  like  o'  that?" 

"Well,  and  what  for  shouldn't  they?"  said  Farmer  Green- 
acre. 

?86 


THE  LOOKALOFTS  AND  THE  GREENACRES. 

"Likening  theyselves  to  the  quality,  as  though  they  was 
estated  folk,  or  the  like  o'  that!"  said  Mrs.  Guffern. 

"Well,  if  they  likes  it  and  madam  likes  it,  they's  welcome 
for  me,"  said  the  farmer.  "Now  I  likes  this  place  better, 
'cause  I  be  more  at  home  like,  and  don't  have  to  pay  for 
them  fine  clothes  for  the  missus.  Every  one  to  his  taste, 
Mrs.  Guffern,  and  if  neighbour  Lookaloft  thinks  that  he  has 
the  best  of  it,  he's  welcome." 

Mrs.  Greenacre  sat  down  by  her  husband's  side  to  begin 
the  heavy  work  of  the  banquet,  and  she  did  so  in  some 
measure  with  restored  tranquillity,  but  nevertheless  she  shook 
her  head  at  her  gossip  to  show  that  in  this  instance  she  did 
not  quite  approve  of  her  husband's  doctrine. 

"And  I'll  tell  'ee  what,  dames,"  continued  he;  "if  so  be 
that  we  cannot  enjoy  the  dinner  that  madam  gives  us  be- 
cause Mother  Lookaloft  is  sitting  up  there  on  a  grand  sofa, 
I  think  we  ought  all  to  go  home.  If  we  greet  at  that,  what'll 
we  do  when  true  sorrow  comes  across  us?  How  would  you 
be  now,  dame,  if  the  boy  there  had  broke  his  neck  when  he 
got  the  tumble?" 

Mrs.  Greenacre  was  humbled,  and  said  nothing  further  on 
the  matter.  But  let  prudent  men,  such  as  Mr.  Greenacre, 
preach  as  they  will,  the  family  of  the  Lookalofts  certainly 
does  occasion  a  good  deal  of  heart-burning  in  the  world  at 
large. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Mr.  Plomacy,  as  leaning  on  his  stout 
stick  he  went  about  among  the  rural  guests,  acting  as  a  sort 
of  head  constable  as  well  as  master  of  the  revels.  "Now, 
young  'un,  if  you  can't  manage  to  get  along  without  that 
screeching,  you'd  better  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  twelve- 
acre  field,  and  take  your  dinner  with  you.  Come,  girls,  what 
do  you  stand  there  for,  twirling  of  your  thumbs  ?  come  out, 
and  let  the  lads  see  you ;  you've  no  need  to  be  so  ashamed  of 
your  faces.  Hollo!  there,  who  are  you?  how  did  you 
make  your  way  in  here?" 

This  last  disagreeable  question  was  put  to  a  young  man  of 
about  twenty-four ,  who  did  not,  in  Mr.  Plomacy 's  eye, 
bear  sufficient  vestiges  of  a  rural  education  and  resi- 
dence. 

"If  you  please,  your  worship,  Master  Barrell  the  coach- 

387 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

man  let  me  in  at  the  church  wicket,  'cause  I  do  be  working 
mostly  al'ays  for  the  family." 

"Then  Master  Barrell  the  coachman  may  let  you  out 
again,"  said  Mr.  Plomacy,  not  even  conciliated  by  the  magis- 
terial dignity  which  had  been  conceded  to  him.  "What's 
your  name?  and  what  trade  are  you,  and  who  do  you  work 
for?" 

"I'm  Stubbs,  your  worship,  Bob  Stubbs;  and — and — 
and " 

"And  what's  your  trade,  Stubbs?" 

"Plaisterer,  please  your  worship." 

"I'll  plaister  you,  and  Barrell  too;  you'll  just  walk  out  of 
this  'ere  field  as  quick  as  you  walked  in.  We  don't  want 
no  plaisterers;  when  we  do,  we'll  send  for  'em.  Come,  my 
buck,  walk." 

Stubbs  the  plaisterer  was  much  downcast  at  this  dreadful 
edict.  He  was  a  sprightly  fellow,  and  had  contrived  since 
his  egress  into  the  Ullathorne  elysium  to  attract  to  himself  a 
forest  nymph,  to  whom  he  was  whispering  a  plasterer's 
usual  soft  nothings,  when  he  was  encountered  by  the  great 
Mr.  Plomacy.  It  was  dreadful  to  be  thus  dissevered  from 
his  dryad,  and  sent  howling  back  to  a  Barchester  pandemo- 
nium just  as  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  were  about  to  descend 
on  the  fields  of  the  asphodel.  He  began  to  try  what  prayers 
would  do,  but  city  prayers  were  vain  against  the  great  rural 
potentate.  Not  only  did  Mr.  Plomacy  order  his  exit,  but 
raising  his  stick  to  show  the  way  which  led  to  the  gate  that 
had  been  left  in  the  custody  of  that  false  Cerberus  Barrell, 
proceeded  himself  to  see  the  edict  of  banishment  carried  out. 

The  goddess  Mercy,  however,  the  sweetest  goddess  that 
ever  sat  upon  a  cloud,  and  the  dearest  to  poor  frail  erring 
man,  appeared  on  the  field  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Greenacre. 
Never  was  interceding  goddess  more  welcome. 

"Come,  man,"  said  Mr.  Greenacre,  "never  stick  at  trifles 
such  a  day  as  this.  I  know  the  lad  well.  Let  him  bide  at 
my  axing.  Madam  won't  miss  what  he  can  eat  and  drink,  I 
know." 

Now  Mr.  Plomacy  and  Mr.  Greenacre  were  sworn  friends. 
Mr.  Plomacy  had  at  his  own  disposal  as  comfortable  a  room 
as  there  was  in  Ullathorne  House;  but  he  was  a  bachelor, 

388 


THE  LOOKALOFTS  AND  THE  GREENACRES. 

and  alone  there ;  and,  moreover,  smoking-  in  the  house  was 
not  allowed  even  to  Mr.  Plomacy.  His  moments  of  truest 
happiness  were  spent  in  a  huge  arm-chair  in  the  warmest 
corner  of  Mrs.  Greenacre's  beautifully  clean  front  kitchen. 
'Twas  there  that  the  inner  man  dissolved  itself,  and  poured 
itself  out  in  streams  of  pleasant  chat ;  'twas  there  that  he  was 
respected  and  yet  at  his  ease;  'twas  there,  and  perhaps  there 
only,  that  he  could  unburden  himself  from  the  ceremonies  of 
life  without  offending  the  dignity  of  those  above  him,  or  in- 
curring the  familiarity  of  those  below.  'Twas  there  that  his 
long  pipe  was  always  to  be  found  on  the  accustomed  chim- 
ney board,  not  only  permitted  but  encouraged. 

Such  being  the  state  of  the  case,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Mr.  Plomacy  could  refuse  such  a  favour  to  Mr.  Green- 
acre;  but  nevertheless  he  did  not  grant  it  without  some  fur- 
ther show  of  austere  authority. 

"Eat  and  drink,  Mr.  Greenacre !  No.  It's  not  what  he 
eats  and  drinks;  but  the  example  such  a  chap  shows,  coming 
in  where  he's  not  invited — a  chap  of  his  age  too.  He  too 
that  never  did  a  day's  work  about  Ullathorne  since  he  was 
born.     Plaisterer !  I'll  plaister  him !" 

"He  worked  long  enough  for  me,  then,  Mr.  Plomacy.  And 
a  good  hand  he  is  at  setting  tiles  as  any  in  Barchester,"  said 
the  other,  not  sticking  quite  to  veracity,  as  indeed  mercy 
never  should.  "Come,  come,  let  him  alone  to-day,  and  quar- 
rel with  him  to-morrow.  You  wouldn't  shame  him  before 
his  lass  there?" 

"It  goes  against  the  grain  with  me,  then,"  said  Mr.  Plo- 
macy. "And  take  care,  you  Stubbs,  and  behave  yourself. 
If  I  hear  a  row  I  shall  know  where  it  comes  from.  I'm  up 
to  you  Barchester  journeymen ;  I  know  what  stuff  you're 
made  of." 

And  so  Stubbs  went  off  happy,  pulling  at  the  forelock  of 
his  shock  head  of  hair  in  honour  of  the  steward's  clemency, 
and  giving  another  double  pull  at  it  in  honour  of  the  farm- 
er's kindness.  And  as  he  went  he  swore  within  his  grateful 
heart,  that  if  ever  Farmer  Greenacre  wanted  a  day's  work 
done  for  nothing,  he  was  the  lad  to  do  it  for  him.  Which 
promise  it  was  not  probable  that  he  would  ever  be  called 
on  to  perform. 

389 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

But  Mr.  Plomacy  was  not  quite  happy  in  his  mind,  for  he 
thought  of  the  unjust  steward,  and  began  to  reflect  whether 
he  had  not  made  for  himself  friends  of  the  mammon  of  un- 
righteousness. This,  however,  did  not  interfere  with  the 
manner  in  which  he  performed  his  duties  at  the  bottom  of  the 
long  board ;  nor  did  Mr.  Greenacre  perform  his  the  worse  at 
the  top  on  account  of  the  good  wishes  of  Stubbs  the  plas- 
terer. Moreover,  the  guests  did  not  think  it  anything  amiss 
when  Mr.  Plomacy,  rising  to  say  grace,  prayed  that  God 
would  make  them  all  truly  thankful  for  the  good  things  which 
Madam  Thorne  in  her  great  liberality  had  set  before  them. 

All  this  time  the  quality  in  the  tent  on  the  lawn  were  get- 
ting on  swimmingly ;  that  is,  if  champagne  without  restric- 
tion can  enable  quality  folk  to  swim.  Sir  Harkaway  Gorse 
proposed  the  health  of  Miss  Thorne,  and  likened  her  to  a 
blood  race-horse,  always  in  condition,  and  not  to  be  tired 
down  by  any  amount  of  work.  Mr.  Thorne  returned  thanks, 
saying  he  hoped  his  sister  would  always  be  found  able  to  run 
when  called  upon,  and  then  gave  the  health  and  prosperity 
of  the  De  Courcy  family.  His  sister  was  very  much  hon- 
oured by  seeing  so  many  of  them  at  her  poor  board.  They 
were  all  aware  that  important  avocations  made  the  absence 
of  the  earl  necessary.  As  his  duty  to  his  prince  had  called 
him  from  his  family  hearth,  he,  Mr.  Thorne,  could  not  ven- 
ture to  regret  that  he  did  not  see  him  at  Ullathorne ;  but 
nevertheless  he  would  venture  to  say — that  was  to  express 

a    wish — an    opinion    he    meant    to    say And    so    Mr. 

Thorne  became  somewhat  gravelled,  as  country  gentlemen 
in  similar  circumstances  usually  do ;  but  he  ultimately  sat 
down,  declaring  that  he  had  much  satisfaction  in  drinking 
the  noble  earl's  health,  together  with  that  of  the  countess,  and 
all  the  family  of  De  Courcy  castle. 

And  then  the  Honourable  George  returned  thanks.  We 
will  not  follow  him  through  the  different  periods  of  his 
somewhat  irregular  eloquence.  Those  immediately  in  his 
neighbourhood  found  it  at  first  rather  difficult  to  get  him  on 
his  legs,  but  much  greater  difficulty  was  soon  experienced  in 
inducing  him  to  resume  his  seat.  One  of  two  arrangements 
should  certainly  be  made  in  these  days :  either  let  all  speech- 
making  on   festive  occasions  be  utterly  tabooed   and  made 

390 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT   11. 

as  it  were  impossible ;  or  else  let  those  who  are  to  exercise 
the  privilege  be  first  subjected  to  a  competing  examination 
before  the  civil  service  examining  commissioners.  As  it  is 
now,  the  Honourable  Georges  do  but  little  honour  to  our  ex- 
ertions in  favour  of  British  education. 

In  the  dining-room  the  bishop  went  through  the  honours 
of  the  day  with  much  more  neatness  and  propriety.  He  also 
drank  Miss  Thome's  health,  and  did  it  in  a  manner  becoming 
the  bench  which  he  adorned.  The  party  there  was  perhaps 
a  little  more  dull,  a  shade  less  lively  than  that  in  the  tent. 
But  what  was  lost  in  mirth,  was  fully  made  up  in  decorum. 

And  so  the  banquets  passed  off  at  the  various  tables  with 
great  eclat  and  universal  delight. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

ULLATHORNE    SPORTS. — ACT    II. 

"'"T^HAT  which  has  made  them  drunk,  has  made  me  bold." 
JL  'Twas  thus  that  Mr.  Slope  encouraged  himself,  as  he 
left  the  dining-room  in  pursuit  of  Eleanor.  He  had  not  in- 
deed seen  in  that  room  any  person  really  intoxicated ;  but 
there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  wine  drunk,  and  Mr.  Slope 
had  not  hesitated  to  take  his  share,  in  order  to  screw  himself 
up  to  the  undertaking  which  he  had  in  hand.  He  is  not  the 
first  man  who  has  thought  it  expedient  to  call  in  the  assist- 
ance of  Bacchvts  on  such  an  occasion. 

Eleanor  was  out  through  the  window,  and  on  the  grass 
before  she  perceived  that  she  was  followed.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  guests  were  nearly  all  occupied  at  the  tables. 
Here  and  there  were  to  be  seen  a  constant  couple  or  two, 
who  preferred  their  own  sweet  discourse  to  the  jingle  of 
glasses,  or  the  charms  of  rhetoric  which  fell  from  the  mouths 
of  the  Honourable  George  and  the  bishop  of  Barchester ;  but 
the  grounds  were  as  nearly  vacant  as  Mr.  Slope  could  wish 
them  to  be. 

Eleanor  saw  that  she  was  pursued,  and  as  a  deer,  when 
escape  is  no  longer  possible,  will  turn  to  bay  and  attack  the 
hounds,  so  did  she  turn  upon  Mr.  Slope. 

391 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Pray  don't  let  me  take  you  from  the  room,"  said  she, 
speaking  with  all  the  stiffness  which  she  knew  how  to  use. 
"I  have  come  out  to  look  for  a  friend.  I  must  beg  of  you, 
Mr.  Slope,  to  go  back." 

But  Mr.  Slope  would  not  be  thus  entreated.  He  had  ob- 
served all  day  that  Mrs.  Bold  was  not  cordial  to  him,  and 
this  had  to  a  certain  extent  oppressed  him.  But  he  did  not 
deduce  from  this  any  assurance  that  his  aspirations  were  in 
vain.  He  saw  that  she  was  angry  with  him.  Might  she  not  be 
so  because  he  had  so  long  tampered  with  her  feelings, — 
might  it  not  arise  from  his  having,  as  he  knew  was  the  case, 
caused  her  name  to  be  bruited  about  in  conjunction  with  his 
own,  without  having  given  her  the  opportunity  of  confessing 
to  the  world  that  henceforth  their  names  were  to  be  one  and 
the  same  ?  Poor  lady !  He  had  within  him  a  certain  Chris- 
tian conscience-stricken  feeling  of  remorse  on  this  head.  It 
might  be  that  he  had  wronged  her  by  his  tardiness.  He 
had,  however,  at  the  present  moment  imbibed  too  much  of 
Mr.  Thome's  champagne  to  have  any  inward  misgivings. 
He  was  right  in  repeating  the  boast  of  Lady  Macbeth :  he 
was  not  drunk ;  but  he  was  bold  enough  for  anything.  It 
was  a  pity  that  in  such  a  state  he  could  not  have  encountered 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

"You  must  permit  me  to  attend  you,"  said  he;  "I  could 
not  think  of  allowing  you  to  go  alone." 

"Indeed  you  must,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  Eleanor  still  very 
stiffly;  "for  it  is  my  special  wish  to  be  alone." 

The  time  for  letting  the  great  secret  escape  him  had  al- 
ready come.  Mr.  Slope  saw  that  it  must  be  now  or  never, 
and  he  was  determined  that  it  should  be  now.  This  was 
not  his  first  attempt  at  winning  a  fair  lady.  He  had  been  on 
his  knees,  looked  unutterable  things  with  his  eyes,  and  whis- 
pered honeyed  words  before  this.  Indeed  he  was  somewhat 
an  adept  at  these  things,  and  had  only  to  adapt  to  the  per- 
haps different  taste  of  Mrs,  Bold  the  well-remembered  rhap- 
sodies which  had  once  so  much  gratified  Olivia  Proudie. 

"Do  not  ask  me  to  leave  you,  Mrs.  Bold,"  said  he  with  an 
impassioned  look,  impassioned  and  sanctified  as  well,  with 
that  sort  of  look  which  is  not  uncommon  with  gentlemen  of 
Mr.  Slope's  school,  and  which  may  perhaps  be  called  the 

392 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    II. 

tender-pious.  "Do  not  ask  me  to  leave  you,  till  I  have  spo- 
ken a  few  words  with  which  my  heart  is  full ;  which  I  have 
come  hither  purposely  to  say." 

Eleanor  saw  how  it  was  now.  She  knew  directly  what  it 
was  she  was  about  to  go  through,  and  very  miserable  the 
knowledge  made  her.  Of  course  she  could  refuse  Mr.  Slope, 
and  there  would  be  an  end  of  that,  one  might  say.  But  there 
would  not  be  an  end  of  it  as  far  as  Eleanor  was  concerned. 
The  very  fact  of  Mr.  Slope's  making  an  offer  to  her  would 
be  a  triumph  to  the  archdeacon,  and  in  a  great  measure  a 
vindication  of  Mr.  Arabin's  conduct.  The  widow  could  not 
bring  herself  to  endure  with  patience  the  idea  that  she  had 
been  in  the  wrong.  She  had  defended  Mr.  Slope,  she  had 
declared  herself  quite  justified  in  admitting  him  among  her 
acquaintance,  had  ridiculed  the  idea  of  his  considering  him- 
self as  more  than  an  acquaintance,  and  had  resented  the 
archdeacon's  caution  in  her  behalf :  now  it  was  about  to  be 
proved  to  her  in  a  manner  sufficiently  disagreeable  that  the 
archdeacon  had  been  right,  and  she  herself  had  been  entirely 
wrong. 

'T  don't  know  what  you  can  have  to  say  to  me,  Mr.  Slope, 
that  you  could  not  have  said  when  we  were  sitting  at  table 
just  now!"  and  she  closed  her  lips,  and  steadied  her  eyeballs, 
and  looked  at  him  in  a  manner  that  ought  to  have  frozen 
him. 

But  gentlemen  are  not  easily  frozen  when  they  are  full  of 
champagne,  and  it  would  not  at  any  time  have  been  easy  to 
freeze  Mr.  Slope. 

"There  are  things,  Mrs.  Bold,  which  a  man  cannot  well 
say  before  a  crowd ;  which  perhaps  he  cannot  well  say  at  any 
time ;  which  indeed  he  may  most  fervently  desire  to  get  spo- 
ken, and  which  he  may  yet  find  it  almost  impossible  to  utter. 
It  is  such  things  as  these,  that  I  now  wish  to  say  to  you ;" 
and  then  the  tender-pious  look  was  repeated,  with  a  little 
more  emphasis  even  than  before. 

Eleanor  had  not  found  it  practicable  to  stand  stock  still 
before  the  dining-room  window,  and  there  receive  his  offer 
in  full  view  of  Miss  Thome's  guests.  She  had  therefore  in 
self-defence  walked  on,  and  thus  Mr.  Slope  had  gained  his 
object  of  walking  with  her.     He  now  offered  her  his  arm. 

393 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Slope,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you;  but 
for  the  very  short  time  that  I  shall  remain  with  you  I  shall 
prefer  walking  alone." 

"And  must  it  be  so  short?"  said  he;  "must  it  be — " 

"Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  interrupting  him;  "as  short  as  pos- 
sible, if  you  please,  sir." 

"I  had  hoped,  Mrs.  Bold— I  had  hoped—" 

"Pray  hope  nothing,  Mr.  Slope,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned; 
pray  do  not;  I  do  not  know,  and  need  not  know  what  hope 
you  mean.  Our  acquaintance  is  very  slight,  and  will  prob- 
ably remain  so.  Pray,  pray  let  that  be  enough;  there  is  at 
any  rate  no  necessity  for  us  to  quarrel." 

Mrs.  Bold  was  certainly  treating  Mr.  Slope  rather  cavalier- 
ly, and  he  felt  it  so.  She  was  rejecting  him  before  he  had 
offered  himself,  and  informed  him  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was  taking  a  great  deal  too  much  on  himself  to  be  so  familiar. 
She  did  not  even  make  an  attempt 

"From  such  a  sharp  and  waspish  word  as  'no' 
To  pluck  the  sting.." 

He  was  still  determined  to  be  very  tender  and  very  pious, 
seeing  that  in  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Bold  had  said  to  him,  he  not 
yet  abandoned  hope ;  but  he  was  inclined  also  to  be  some- 
what angry.  The  widow  was  bearing  herself,  as  he  thought, 
with  too  high  a  hand,  was  speaking  of  herself  in  much  too 
imperious  a  tone.  She  had  clearly  no  idea  that  an  honour 
was  being  conferred  on  her.  Mr.  Slope  would  be  tender  as 
long  as  he  could,  but  he  began  to  think,  if  that  failed,  it 
would  not  be  amiss  if  he  also  mounted  himself  for  a  while 
on  his  high  horse.  Mr.  Slope  could  undoubtedly  be  very 
tender,  but  he  could  be  very  savage  also,  and  he  knew  his  own 
abilities. 

"That  is  cruel,"  said  he,  "and  unchristian  too.  The  worst 
of  us  are  all  still  bidden  to  hope.  What  have  I  done  that  you 
should  pass  on  me  so  severe  a  sentence?"  and  then  he  paused 
a  moment,  during  which  the  widow  walked  steadily  on  with 
measured  step,  saying  nothing  further. 

"Beautiful  woman,"  at  last  he  burst  forth ;  "beautiful  wom- 
an, you  cannot  pretend  to  be  ignorant  that  I  adore  you.  Yes, 
Eleanor,  yes,  I  love  you.     I  love  you  with  the  truest  affection 

394 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    11. 

which  man  can  bear  to  woman.  Next  to  my  hopes  of  heaven 
are  my  hopes  of  possessing  you."  (Mr.  Slope's  memory  here 
played  him  false,  or  he  would  not  have  omitted  the  deanery.) 
"How  sweet  to  walk  to  heaven  with  you  by  my  side,  with 
you  for  my  guide,  mutual  guides.  Say,  Eleanor,  dearest 
Eleanor,  shall  we  walk  that  sweet  path  together  ?" 

Eleanor  had  no  intention  of  ever  walking  together  with 
Mr.  Slope  on  any  other  path  than  that  special  one  of  Miss 
Thome's  which  they  now  occupied ;  but  as  she  had  been  un- 
able to  prevent  the  expression  of  Mr.  Slope's  wishes  and  as- 
pirations, she  resolved  to  hear  him  out  to  the  end,  before  she 
answered  him. 

"Ah !  Eleanor,"  he  continued,  and  it  seemed  to  be  his  idea 
that  as  he  had  once  found  courage  to  pronounce  her  Christian 
name,  he  could  not  utter  it  often  enough.  "Ah !  Eleanor, 
will  it  not  be  sweet,  with  the  Lord's  assistance,  to  travel  hand 
in  hand  through  this  mortal  valley  which  his  mercies  will 
make  pleasant  to  us,  till  hereafter  we  shall  dwell  together  at 
the  foot  of  his  throne?"  And  then  a  more  tenderly  pious 
glance  than  ever  beamed  from  the  lover's  eyes.  "Ah ! 
Eleanor — " 

"My  name,  Mr.  Slope,  is  Mrs.  Bold,"  said  Eleanor,  who, 
though  determined  to  hear  out  the  tale  of  his  love,  was  too 
much  disgusted  by  his  blasphemy  to  be  able  to  bear  much 
more  of  it. 

"Sweetest  angel,  be  not  so  cold,"  said  he,  and  as  he  said  it 
the  champagne  broke  forth,  and  he  contrived  to  pass  his  arm 
round  her  waist.  He  did  this  with  considerable  cleverness, 
for  up  to  this  point  Eleanor  had  contrived  with  tolerable  suc- 
cess to  keep  her  distance  from  him.  They  had  got  into  a 
walk  nearly  enveloped  by  shrubs,  and  Mr.  Slope  therefore  no 
doubt  considered  that  as  they  were  now  alone  it  was  fitting 
that  he  should  give  her  some  outward  demonstration  of  that 
affection  of  which  he  talked  so  much.  It  may  perhaps  be 
presumed  that  the  same  stamp  of  measures  had  been  found  to 
succeed  with  Olivia  Proudie.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  was  not 
successful  with  Eleanor  Bold. 

She  sprang  from  him  as  she  would  have  jumped  from  an 
adder,  but  she  did  not  spring  far;  not,  indeed,  beyond  arm's 
length ;  and  then,  quick  as  thought,  she  raised  her  little  hand 

395 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  dealt  him  a  box  on  the  ear  with  such  right  good  will,  that 
it  sounded  among  the  trees  like  a  miniature  thunder-clap. 

And  now  it  is  to  be  feared  that  every  well-bred  reader  of 
these  pages  will  lay  down  the  book  with  disgust,  feeling  that, 
after  all,  the  heroine  is  unworthy  of  sympathy.  She  is  a 
hoyden,  one  will  say.  At  any  rate  she  is  not  a  lady,  another 
will  exclaim.  I  have  suspected  her  all  through,  a  third  will 
declare ;  she  has  no  idea  of  the  dignity  of  a  matron ;  or  of  the 
peculiar  propriety  which  her  position  demands.  At  one  mo- 
ment she  is  romping  with  young  Stanhope ;  then  she  is  mak- 
ing eyes  at  Mr.  Arabin ;  anon  she  comes  to  fisty-cuflfs  with  a 
third  lover;  and  all  before  she  is  yet  a  widow  of  two  years' 
standing. 

She  cannot  altogether  be  defended ;  and  yet  it  may  be 
averred  that  she  is  not  a  hoyden,  not  given  to  romping,  nor 
prone  to  boxing.  It  were  to  be  wished  devoutly  that  she  had 
not  struck  Mr.  Slope  in  the  face.  In  doing  so  she  derogated 
from  her  dignity  and  committed  herself.  Had  she  been  edu- 
cated in  Belgravia,  had  she  been  brought  up  by  any  sterner 
mentor  than  that  fond  father,  had  she  lived  longer  under  the 
rule  of  a  husband,  she  might,  perhaps,  have  saved  herself 
from  this  great  fault.  As  it  was,  the  provocation  was  too 
much  for  her,  the  temptation  to  instant  resentment  of  the  in- 
sult too  strong.  She  was  too  keen  in  the  feeling  of  independ- 
ence, a  feeling  dangerous  for  a  young  woman,  but  one  in 
which  her  position  peculiarly  tempted  her  to  indulge.  And 
then  Mr.  Slope's  face,  tinted  with  a  deeper  dye  than  usual 
by  the  wine  he  had  drunk,  simpering  and  puckering  itself  with 
pseudo  piety  and  tender  grimaces,  seemed  specially  to  call 
for  such  punishment.  She  had,  too,  a  true  instinct  as  to  the 
man ;  he  was  capable  of  rebuke  in  this  way  and  in  no  other. 
To  him  the  blow  from  her  little  hand  was  as  much  an  insult 
as  a  blow  from  a  man  would  have  been  to  another.  It  went 
direct  to  his  pride.  He  conceived  himself  lowered  in  his 
dignity,  and  personally  outraged.  He  could  almost  have 
struck  at  her  again  in  his  rage.  Even  the  pain  was  a  great 
annoyance  to  him,  and  the  feeling  that  his  clerical  character 
had  been  wholly  disregarded,  sorely  vexed  him. 

There  are  such  men ;  men  who  can  endure  no  taint  on  their 
personal  self-respect,  even  from  a  woman ; — men  whose  bod- 

396 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    II. 

ies  are  to  themselves  such  sacred  temples,  that  a  joke  against 
them  is  desecration,  and  a  rough  touch  downright  sacrilege. 
Mr.  Slope  was  such  a  man ;  and,  therefore,  the  slap  on  the 
face  that  he  got  from  Eleanor  was,  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, the  fittest  rebuke  which  could  have  been  administered 
to  him. 

But,  nevertheless,  she  should  not  have  raised  her  hand 
against  the  man.  Ladies'  hands,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  de- 
licious to  the  touch,  so  graceful  to  the  eye,  so  gracious  in  their 
gentle  doings,  were  not  made  to  belabour  men's  faces.  The 
moment  the  deed  was  done  Eleanor  felt  that  she  had  sinned 
against  all  propriety,  and  would  have  given  little  worlds  to  re- 
call the  blow.  In  her  first  agony  of  sorrow  she  all  but 
begged  the  man's  pardon.  Her  next  impulse,  however,  and 
the  one  which  she  obeyed,  was  to  run  away. 

"I  never,  never  will  speak  another  word  to  you,"  she  said, 
gasping  with  emotion  and  the  loss  of  breath  which  her  exer- 
tion and  violent  feelings  occasioned  her,  and  so  saying  she 
put  foot  to  the  ground  and  ran  quickly  back  along  the  path 
to  the  house. 

But  how  shall  I  sing  the  divine  wrath  of  Mr.  Slope,  or  how 
invoke  the  tragic  muse  to  describe  the  rage  which  swelled 
the  celestial  bosom  of  the  bishop's  chaplain  ?  Such  an  under- 
taking by  no  means  befits  the  low-heeled  buskin  of  modern 
fiction.  The  painter  put  a  veil  over  Agamemnon's  face  when 
called  on  to  depict  the  father's  grief  at  the  early  doom  of  his 
devoted  daughter.  The  god,  when  he  resolved  to  punish  the 
rebellious  winds,  abstained  from  mouthing  empty  threats. 
We  will  not  attempt  to  tell  with  what  mighty  surgings  of  the 
inner  heart  Mr.  Slope  swore  to  revenge  himself  on  the  woman 
who  had  disgraced  him,  nor  will  we  vainly  strive  to  depict  his 
deep  agony  of  soul. 

There  he  is,  however,  alone  in  the  garden  walk,  and  we 
must  contrive  to  bring  him  out  of  it.  He  was  not  willing  to 
come  forth  quite  at  once.  His  cheek  was  stinging  with  the 
weight  of  Eleanor's  fingers,  and  he  fancied  that  every  one 
who  looked  at  him  would  be  able  to  see  on  his  face  the  traces 
of  what  he  had  endured.  He  stood  awhile,  becoming  redder 
and  redder  with  rage.  He  stood  motionless,  undecided,  glar- 
ing with  his  eyes,  thinking  of  the  pains  and  penalties   of 

397 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Hades,  and  meditating  how  he  might  best  devote  his  enemy 
to  the  infernal  gods  with  all  the  passion  of  his  accustomed 
eloquence.  He  longed  in  his  heart  to  be  preaching  at  her. 
'Twas  thus  that  he  was  ordinarily  avenged  of  sinning  mortal 
men  and  women.  Could  he  at  once  have  ascended  his  Sun- 
day rostrum  and  fulminated  at  her  such  denunciations  as  his 
spirit  delighted  in,  his  bosom  would  have  been  greatly  eased. 
But  how  preach  to  Mr.  Thome's  laurels,  or  how  preach 
indeed  at  all  in  such  a  vanity  fair  as  this  now  going  on  at 
Ullathorne?  And  then  he  began  to  feel  a  righteous  disgust 
at  the  wickedness  of  the  doings  around  him.  He  had  been 
justly  chastised  for  lending,  by  his  presence,  a  sanction  to 
such  worldly  lures.  The  gaiety  of  society,  the  mirth  of  ban- 
quets, the  laughter  of  the  young,  and  the  eating  and  drinking 
of  the  elders  were,  for  awhile,  without  excuse  in  his  sight. 
What  had  he  now  brought  down  upon  himself  by  sojourn- 
ing thus  in  the  tents  of  the  heathen  ?  He  had  consorted  with 
idolaters  round  the  altars  of  Baal ;  and  therefore  a  sore  pun- 
ishment had  come  upon  him.  He  then  thought  of  the  Sig- 
nora  Neroni,  and  his  soul  within  him  was  full  of  sorrow. 
He  had  an  inkling — a  true  inkling — that  he  was  a  wicked, 
sinful  man ;  but  it  led  him  in  no  right  direction ;  he  could 
admit  no  charity  in  his  heart.  He  felt  debasement  coming 
on  him,  and  he  longed  to  shake  it  off,  to  rise  up  in  his  stirrup, 
to  mount  to  high  places  and  great  power,  that  he  might  get 
up  into  a  mighty  pulpit  and  preach  to  the  world  a  loud  ser- 
mon against  Mrs.  Bold. 

There  he  stood  fixed  to  the  gravel  for  about  ten  minutes. 
Fortune  favoured  him  so  far  that  no  prying  eyes  came  to  look 
upon  him  in  his  misery.  Then  a  shudder  passed  over  his 
whole  frame ;  he  collected  himself,  and  slowly  wound  his  way 
round  to  the  lawn,  advancing  along  the  path  and  not  return- 
ing in  the  direction  which  Eleanor  had  taken.  W^hen  he 
reached  the  tent  he  found  the  bishop  standing  there  in  conver- 
sation with  the  master  of  Lazarus.  His  lordship  had  come 
out  to  air  himself  after  the  exertion  of  his  speech. 

"This  is  very  pleasant — very  pleasant,  my  lord,  is  it  not?" 
said  Mr.  Slope  with  his  most  gracious  smile,  and  pointing  to 
the  tent ;  "very  pleasant.  It  is  delightful  to  see  so  many 
persons  enjoying  themselves  so  thoroughlv." 

398 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    11. 

Mr.  Slope  thought  he  might  force  the  bishop  to  introduce 
him  to  Dr.  Gwymie.  A  very  great  example  had  declared  and 
practised  the  wisdom  of  being  everything  to  everybody,  and 
Mr.  Slope  was  desirous  of  following  it.  His  maxim  was 
never  to  lose  a  chance.  The  bishop,  however,  at  the  present 
moment  was  not  very  anxious  to  increase  Mr.  Slope's  circle 
of  acquaintance  among  his  clerical  brethren.  He  had  his  own 
reasons  for  dropping  any  marked  allusion  to  his  domestic 
chaplain,  and  he  therefore  made  his  shoulder  rather  cold  for 
the  occasion. 

"Very,  very,"  said  he  without  turning  round,  or  even 
deigning  to  look  at  Mr.  Slope.  "And  therefore.  Dr.  Gwynne, 
I  really  think  that  you  will  find  that  the  hebdomadal  board 
will  exercise  as  wide  and  as  general  an  authority  as  at  the 
present  moment.     I,  for  one,  Dr.  Gwynne " 

"Dr.  Gwynne,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  raising  his  hat,  and  resolv- 
ing not  to  be  outwitted  by  such  an  insignificant  little  goose  as 
the  bishop  of  Barchester, 

The  master  of  Lazarus  also  raised  his  hat  and  bowed  very 
politely  to  Mr.  Slope.  There  is  not  a  more  courteous  gentle- 
man in  the  queen's  dominions  than  the  master  of  Lazarus. 

"My  lord,"  said  Mr.  Slope;  "pray  do  me  the  honour  of 
introducing  me  to  Dr.  Gwynne.  The  opportunity  is  too  much 
in  my  favour  to  be  lost." 

The  bishop  had  no  help  for  it.  "My  chaplain.  Dr. 
Gwynne,"  said  he ;  "my  present  chaplain,  Mr.  Slope."  He 
certainly  made  the  introduction  as  unsatisfactory  to  the  chap- 
lain as  possible,  and  by  the  use  of  the  word  present,  seemed 
to  indicate  that  Mr.  Slope  might  probably  not  long  enjoy  the 
honour  which  he  now  held.  But  Mr.  Slope  cared  nothing  for 
this.  He  understood  the  innuendo,  and  disregarded  it.  It 
might  probably  come  to  pass  that  he  would  be  in  a  situation 
to  resign  his  chaplaincy  before  the  bishop  was  in  a  situation 
to  dismiss  him  from  it.  What  need  the  future  dean  of  Bar- 
chester care  for  the  bishop,  or  for  the  bishop's  wife?  Had 
not  Mr.  Slope,  just  as  he  was  entering  Dr.  Stanhope's  car- 
riage, received  an  all  important  note  from  Tom  Towers  of 
the  Jupiter?  had  he  not  that  note  this  moment  in  his  pocket? 

So  disregarding  the  bishop,  he  began  to  open  out  a  con- 
versation with  the  master  of  Lazarus. 

•     399 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

But  suddenly  an  interruption  came,  not  altogether  unwel- 
come to  Mr.  Slope.  One  of  the  bishop's  servants  came  up  to 
his  master's  shoulder  with  a  long,  grave  face,  and  whispered 
into  the  bishop's  ear. 

"What  is  it,  John?"  said  the  bishop. 

"The  dean,  my  lord ;  he  is  dead." 

Mr.  Slope  had  no  further  desire  to  converse  with  the  mas- 
ter of  Lazarus,  and  was  very  soon  on  his  road  back  to  Bar- 
chester. 

Eleanor,  as  we  have  said,  having  declared  her  intention  of 
never  holding  further  communication  with  Mr.  Slope,  ran 
hurriedly  back  towards  the  house.  The  thought,  however, 
of  what  she  had  done  grieved  her  greatly,  and  she  could  not 
abstain  from  bursting  into  tears.  'Twas  thus  she  played  the 
second  act  in  that  day's  melodrama. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

MRS.   BOLD   CONFIDES   HER   SORROW   TO   HER  FRIEND 
MISS    STANHOPE. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Bold  came  to  the  end  of  the  walk  and  faced 
the  lawn,  she  began  to  bethink  herself  what  she 
should  do.  Was  she  to  wait  there  till  Mr.  Slope  caught  her, 
or  was  she  to  go  in  among  the  crowd  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
and  passion  in  her  face?  She  might  in  truth  have  stood 
there  long  enough  without  any  reasonable  fear  of  further 
immediate  persecution  from  Mr.  Slope ;  but  we  are  all  in- 
clined to  magnify  the  bugbears  which  frighten  us.  In  her 
present  state  of  dread  she  did  not  know  of  what  atrocity  he 
might  venture  to  be  guilty.  Had  any  one  told  her  a  week 
ago  that  he  would  have  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  at  this 
party  of  Miss  Thome's,  she  would  have  been  utterly  incredu- 
lous. Had  she  been  informed  that  he  would  be  seen  on  the 
following  Sunday  walking  down  the  High-street  in  a  scarlet 
coat  and  top-boots,  she  would  not  have  thought  such  a  phe- 
nomenon more  improbable. 

But  this  improbable  iniquity  he  had  committed;  and  now 
there  was  nothing  she  could  not  believe  of  him.     In  the  first 

400 


MRS.    BOLD    CONFIDES    IN    MISS    STANHOPE. 

place  it  was  quite  manifest  that  he  was  tipsy;  in  the  next 
place,  it  was  to  be  taken  as  proved  that  all  his  religion  was 
sheer  hypocrisy;  and  finally  the  man  was  utterly  shameless. 
She  therefore  stood  watching  for  the  sound  of  his  footfall, 
not  without  some  fear  that  he  might  creep  out  at  her  suddenly 
from  among  the  bushes. 

As  she  thus  stood,  she  saw  Charlotte  Stanhope  at  a  little 
distance  from  her  walking  quickly  across  the  grass.  Elea- 
nor's handkerchief  was  in  her  hand,  and  putting  it  to  her  face 
so  as  to  conceal  her  tears,  she  ran  across  the  lawn  and  joined 
her  friend. 

"Oh,  Charlotte,"  she  said,  almost  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  speak  very  plainly ;  "I  am  so  glad  I  have  found  you." 

"Glad  you  have  found  me!"  said  Charlotte,  laughing: 
"that's  a  good  joke.  Why  Bertie  and  I  have  been  looking 
for  you  everywhere.  He  swears  that  you  have  gone  off  with 
Mr.  Slope,  and  is  now  on  the  point  of  hanging  himself." 

"Oh,  Charlotte,  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Bold. 

"Why,  my  child,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you !" 
said  Miss  Stanhope,  perceiving  that  Eleanor's  hand  trembled 
on  her  own  arm,  and  finding  also  that  her  companion  was 
still  half  choked  by  tears.  "Goodness  heaven !  something  has 
distressed  you.     What  is  it?     What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Eleanor  answered  her  only  by  a  sort  of  spasmodic  gurele 
in  her  throat.  She  was  a  good  deal  upset,  as  people  say,  and 
could  not  at  the  moment  collect  herself. 

"Come  here,  this  way,  Mrs.  Bold ;  come  this  way,  and  we 
shall  not  be  seen.  What  has  happened  to  vex  you  so  ?  What 
can  I  do  for  you?     Can  Bertie  do  anything?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Eleanor.  "There  is  nothing  to 
be  done.     Only  that  horrid  man " 

"What  horrid  man?"  asked  Charlotte. 

There  are  some  moments  in  life  in  which  both  men  and 
women  feel  themselves  imperatively  called  on  to  make  a  con- 
fidence; in  which  not  to  do  so  requires  a  disagreeable  resolu- 
tion and  also  a  disagreeable  suspicion.  There  are  people  of 
both  sexes  who  never  make  confidences  ;  who  are  never  tempt- 
ed by  momentary  circumstances  to  disclose  their  secrets ;  but 
such  are  generally  dull,  close,  unimpassioned  spirits,  "gloomy 
gnomes,  who  live  in  cold  dark  mines,"     There  was  nothing  of 

28  401 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

the  gnome  about  Eleanor;  and  she  therefore  resolved  to  tetl 
Charlotte  Stanhope  the  whole  story  about  Mr.  Slope. 

"That  horrid  man ;  that  Mr.  Slope,"  said  she ;  "did  you  not 
see  that  he  followed  me  out  of  the  dining-room?" 

"Of  course  1  did,  and  was  sorry  enough ;  but  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  knew  you  would  be  annoyed.  But  you  and  Bertie 
managed  it  badly  between  you." 

"It  was  not  his  fault  nor  mine  either.  You  know  how  I 
disliked  the  idea  of  coming  in  the  carriage  with  that  man." 

"I  am  sure  I  am  very  sorry  if  that  has  led  to  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  has  led  to  it,"  said  Eleanor,  almost 
crying  again.     "But  it  has  not  been  my  fault." 

"But  what  has  he  done,  my  dear?" 

"He's  an  abominable,  horrid,  hypocritical  man,  and  it  would 
serve  him  right  to  tell  the  bishop  all  about  it.", 

"Believe  me,  if  you  want  to  do  him  an  injury,  you  had  far 
better  tell  Mrs.  Proudie.     But  what  did  he  do,  Mrs.  Bold?" 

"Ugh !"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 

"Well,  I  must  confess  he's  not  very  nice,"  said  Charlotte 
Stanhope. 

"Nice !"  said  Eleanor.  "He  is  the  most  fulsome,  fawning, 
abominable  man  I  ever  saw.  What  business  had  he  to  come 
to  me? — I  that  never  gave  him  the  slightest  tittle  of  encour- 
agement— I  that  always  hated  him,  though  I  did  take  his 
part  when  others  ran  him  down." 

"That's  just  where  it  is,  my  dear.  He  has  heard  that,  and 
therefore  fancied  that  of  course  you  were  in  love  with 
him." 

This  was  wormwood  to  Eleanor.  It  was  in  fact  the  very 
thing  which  all  her  friends  had  been  saying  for  the  last  month 
past ;  and  which  experience  now  proved  to  be  true.  Eleanor 
resolved  within  herself  that  she  would  never  again  take  any 
man's  part.  The  world  with  all  its  villainy,  and  all  its  ill- 
nature,  might  wag  as  it  liked ;  she  would  not  again  attempt  to 
set  crooked  things  straight. 

"But  what  did  he  do,  my  dear?"  said  Charlotte,  who  was 
reallv  rather  interested  in  the  subject. 

"He— he— he— " 

"Well — come,  it  can't  have  been  anything  so  very  horrid, 
for  the  man  was  not  tipsy." 

402 


MRS.    BOLD    CONFIDES    IN    MISS    STANHOPE. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  he  was,"  said  Eleanor.  "I  am  sure  he 
must  have  been  tipsy." 

"Well,  I  declare  I  didn't  observe  it.  But  what  was  it,  my 
love?" 

"Why,  I  believe  I  can  hardly  tell  you.  He  talked  such  hor- 
rid stuff  that  you  never  heard  the  like ;  about  religion, 
and  heaven,  and  love. — Oh,  dear, — he  is  such  a  nasty 
man." 

"I  can  easily  imagine  the  sort  of  stuff  he  would  talk.  Well, 
—and  then—?" 

"And  then — he  took  hold  of  me." 

"Took  hold  of  you?" 

"Yes, — he  somehow  got  close  to  me  and  took  hold  of 
me—" 

"By  the  waist?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  shuddering. 

"And  then—" 

"Then  I  jumped  away  from  him,  and  gave  him  a  slap  on 
the  face;  and  ran  away  along  the  path,  till  I  saw  you." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  Charlotte  Stanhope  laughed  heartily  at  the 
finale  to  the  tragedy.  It  was  delightful  to  her  to  think  that 
Mr.  Slope  had  had  his  ears  boxed.  She  did  not  quite  appre- 
ciate the  feeling  which  made  her  friend  so  unhappy  at  the  re- 
sult of  the  interview.  To  her  thinking,  the  matter  had  ended 
happily  enough  as  regarded  the  widow,  who  indeed  was  en- 
titled to  some  sort  of  triumph  among  her  friends.  Whereas 
to  Mr.  Slope  would  be  due  all  those  jibes  and  jeers  whi'^l'' 
would  naturally  follow  such  an  affair.  His  friends  would 
ask  him  whether  his  ears  tingled  whenever  he  saw  a  widow ; 
and  he  would  be  cautioned  that  beautiful  things  were  made  to 
be  looked  at,  and  not  to  be  touched. 

Such  were  Charlotte  Stanhope's  views  on  such  matters  ;  bn*: 
she  did  not  at  the  present  moment  clearly  explain  them  to 
Mrs.  Bold.  Her  object  was  to  endear  herself  to  her  friend: 
and  therefore,  having  had  her  laugh,  she  was  ready  enough 
to  offer  sympathy.  Could  Bertie  do  anything?  Should  Ber- 
tie speak  to  the  man,  and  warn  him  that  in  future  he  must 
behave  with  more  decorum?  Bertie,  indeed,  she  declared, 
would  be  more  angry  than  any  one  else  when  he  heard  to 
what  insult  Mrs.  Bold  had  been  subjected. 

403 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"But  you  won't  tell  him?"  said  Mrs.  Bold  with  a  look  of 
horror. 

"Not  if  you  don't  like  it,"  said  Charlotte ;  "but  considering 
everything,  I  would  strongly  advise  it.  If  you  had  a  brother, 
you  know,  it  would  be  unnecessary.  But  it  is  very  right  that 
Mr.  Slope  should  know  that  you  have  somebody  by  you  that 
will,  and  can,  protect  you." 

"But  my  father  is  here." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  so  disagreeable  for  clergymen  to  have  to 
quarrel  with  each  other ;  and  circumstanced  as  your  father  is 
just  at  this  moment,  it  would  be  very  inexpedient  that  there 
should  be  anything  unpleasant  between  him  and  Mr.  Slope. 
Surely  you  and  Bertie  are  intimate  enough  for  you  to  permit 
him  to  take  your  part." 

Charlotte  Stanhope  was  very  anxious  that  her  brother 
should  at  once  on  that  very  day  settle  matters  with  his  future 
wife.  Things  had  now  come  to  that  point  between  him  and 
his  father,  and  between  him  and  his  creditors,  that  he  must 
either  do  so,  or  leave  Barchester;  either  do  that,  or  go  back 
to  his  unwashed  associates,  dirty  lodgings,  and  poor  living  at 
Carrara.  Unless  he  could  provide  himself  with  an  income, 
he  must  go  to  Carrara,  or  to .  His  father  the  preben- 
dary had  not  said  this  in  so  many  words,  but  had  he  done  so, 
he  could  not  have  signified  it  more  plainly. 

Such  being  the  state  of  the  case,  it  was  very  necessary  that 
no  more  time  should  be  lost.  Charlotte  had  seen  her  broth- 
er's apathy,  when  he  neglected  to  follow  Mrs.  Bold  out  of  the 
room,  with  anger  which  she  could  hardly  suppress.  It  was 
grievous  to  think  that  Mr.  Slope  should  have  so  distanced 
him.  Charlotte  felt  that  she  had  played  her  part  with  suffi- 
cient skill.  She  had  brought  them  together  and  induced  such 
a  degree  of  intimacy,  that  her  brother  was  really  relieved 
from  all  trouble  and  labour  in  the  matter.  And  moreover, 
it  was  quite  plain  that  Mrs.  Bold  was  very  fond  of  Bertie. 
And  now  it  was  plain  enough  also  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  his  rival  Mr.  Slope. 

There  was  certainly  an  awkwardness  in  subjecting  Mrs. 
Bold  to  a  second  offer  on  the  same  day.  It  would  have  been 
well  perhaps  to  have  put  the  matter  off  for  a  week,  could  a 
week  have  been  spared.     But  circumstances  are  frequentlv 

404 


MRS.    BOLD    CONFIDES    IN    MISS    STANHOPE. 

too  peremptory  to  be  arranged  as  we  would  wish  *to  arrange 
them ;  and  such  was  the  case  now.  This  being-  so,  could  not 
this  affair  of  Mr.  Slope's  be  turned  to  advantage?  Could  it 
not  be  made  the  excuse  for  bringing  Bertie  and  Mrs.  Bold 
into  such  close  connection  that  they  could  not  fail  to  throw 
themselves  into  each  other's  arms?  Such  was  the  game 
which  Miss  Stanhope  now  at  a  moment's  notice  resolved  to 
play. 

And  very  well  she  played  it.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  Mr.  Slope  should  not  return  in  the  Stanhopes' 
carriage  to  Barchester.  It  so  happened  that  Mr.  Slope  was 
already  gone,  but  of  that  of  course  they  knew  nothing.  The 
signora  should  be  induced  to  go  first,  with  only  the  servants 
and  her  sister,  and  Bertie  should  take  Mr.  Slope's  place  in  the 
second  journey.  Bertie  was  to  be  told  in  confidence  of  the 
whole  affair,  and  when  the  carriage  was  gone  off  with  its 
first  load,  Eleanor  was  to  be  left  under  Bertie's  special  pro- 
tection, so  as  to  insure  her  from  any  further  aggression  from 
Mr.  Slope.  While  the  carriage  was  getting  ready,  Bertie 
was  to  seek  out  that  gentleman  and  make  him  understand 
that  he  must  provide  himself  with  another  conveyance  back  to 
Barchester.  Their  immediate  object  should  be  to  walk  about 
together  in  search  of  Bertie.  Bertie,  in  short,  was  to  be  the 
Pegasus  on  whose  wings  they  were  to  ride  out  of  their  pres- 
ent dilemma. 

There  was  a  warmth  of  friendship  and  cordial  kindliness  in 
all  this,  that  was  very  soothing  to  the  widow ;  but  yet,  though 
she  gave  way  to  it,  she  was  hardly  reconciled  to  doing  so. 
It  never  occurred  to  her,  that  now  that  she  had  killed  one 
dragon,  another  was  about  to  spring  up  in  her  path ;  she  had 
no  remote  idea  that  she  would  have  to  encounter  another 
suitor  in  her  proposed  protector,  but  she  hardly  liked  the 
thought  of  putting  herself  so  much  into  the  hands  of  young 
Stanhope.  She  felt  that  if  she  wanted  protection,  she  should 
go  to  her  father.  She  felt  that  she  should  ask  him  to  provide 
a  carriage  for  her  back  to  Barchester.  Mrs.  Clantantram  she 
knew  would  give  her  a  seat.  She  knew  that  she  should  not 
throw  herself  entirely  upon  friends  whose  friendship  dated 
as  it  were  but  from  yesterday.  But  yet  she  could  not  say 
"no,"  to  one  who  was  so  sisterly  in  her  kindness,  so  eager  in 

405 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

her  good  nature,  so  comfortably  sympathetic  as  Charlotte 
Stanhope.  And  thus  she  gave  way  to  all  the  propositions 
made  to  her. 

They  first  went  into  the  dining-room,  looking  for  their 
champion,  and  from  thence  to  the  drawing-room.  Here  they 
found  Mr.  Arabin,  still  hanging  over  the  signora's  sofa;  or, 
rather,  they  found  him  sitting  near  her  head,  as  a  physician 
might  have  sat,  had  the  lady  been  his  patient.  There  was  no 
other  person  in  the  room.  The  guests  were  some  in  the  tent, 
some  few  still  in  the  dining-room,  some  at  the  bows  and  ar- 
rows, but  most  of  them  walking  with  Miss  Thorne  through 
the  park,  and  looking  at  the  garnes  that  were  going  on. 

All  that  had  passed,  and  was  passing  between  Mr.  Arabin 
and  the  lady,  it  is  unnecessary  to  give  in  detail.  She  was  do- 
ing with  him  as  she  did  with  all  others.  It  was  her  mission 
to  make  fools  of  men,  and  she  was  pursuing  her  mission  with 
Mr.  Arabin.  She  had  almost  got  him  to  own  his  love  for 
Mrs.  Bold,  and  had  subsequently  almost  induced  him  to  ac- 
knowledge a  passion  for  herself.  He,  poor  man,  was  hardly 
aware  what  he  was  doing  or  saying,  hardly  conscious  whether 
he  was  in  heaven  or  in  hell.  So  little  had  he  known  of  female 
attractions  of  that  peculiar  class  which  the  signora  owned, 
that  he  became  affected  with  a  kind  of  temporary  delirium, 
when  first  subjected  to  its  power.  He  lost  his  head  rather 
than  his  heart,  and  toppled  about  mentally,  reeling  in  his 
ideas  as  a  drunken  man  does  on  his  legs.  She  had  whispered 
to  him  words  that  really  meant  nothing,  but  which  coming 
from  such  beautiful  lips,  and  accompanied  by  such  lustrous 
glances,  seemed  to  have  a  mysterious  significance,  which  he 
felt  though  he  could  not  understand. 

In  being  thus  be-sirened,  Mr.  Arabin  behaved  himself  very 
differently  from  Mr.  Slope.  The  signora  had  said  truly,  that 
the  two  men  were  the  contrasts  of  each  other;  that  the  one 
was  all  for  action,  the  other  all  for  thought.  Mr.  Slope, 
when  this  lady  laid  upon  his  senses  the  overpowering  breath 
of  her  charms,  immediately  attempted  to  obtain  some  fruition, 
to  achieve  some  mighty  triumph.  He  began  by  catching  at 
her  hand,  and  progressed  by  kissing  it.  He  made  vows  of 
love,  and  asked  for  vows  in  return.  He  promised  everlasting 
devotion,  knelt  before  her,  and  swore  that  had  she  been  on 

406 


MRS.    BOLD    CONFIDES    IN    MISS    STANHOPE. 

Mount  Ida,  Juno  would  have  had  no  cause  to  hate  the  off- 
spring of  Venus.  But  Mr.  Arabin  uttered  no  oaths,  kept 
his  hand  mostly  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and  had  no  more 
thought  of  kissing  Madam  Neroni,  than  of  kissing  the  Coun- 
tess De  Courcy. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Arabin  saw  Mrs.  Bold  enter  the  room,  he 
blushed  and  rose  from  his  chair ;  then  he  sat  down  again,  and 
then  again  got  up.  The  signora  saw  the  blush  at  once,  and 
smiled  at  the  poor  victim,  but  Eleanor  was  too  much  confused 
to  see  anything. 

"Oh,  Madeline,"  said  Charlotte,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you 
particularly;  we  must  arrange  about  the  carriage,  you  know;" 
and  she  stooped  down  to  whisper  to  her  sister.  Mr.  Arabin 
immediately  withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  and  as  Charlotte 
had  in  fact  much  to  explain  before  she  could  make  the  new 
carriage  arrangement  intelligible,  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Bold. 

"We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  party,"  said  he,  using  the 
tone  he  would  have  used  had  he  declared  that  the  sun  was 
shining  very  brightly,  or  the  rain  falling  very  fast. 

"Very,"  said  Eleanor,  who  never  in  her  life  had  passed  a 
more  unpleasant  day. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Harding  has  enjoyed  himself." 

"Oh,  yes,  very  much,"  said  Eleanor,  who  had  not  seen  her 
father  since  she  parted  from  him  soon  after  her  arrival. 

"He  returns  to  Barchester  to-night,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  I  believe  so ;  that  is,  I  think  he  is  staying  at  Plum- 
stead." 

"Oh,  staying  at  Plumstead,"  said  Mr.  Arabin. 

"He  came  from  there  this  morning.  I  believe  he  is  going 
back ;  he  didn't  exactly  say,  however." 

"I  hope  Mrs.  Grantly  is  quite  well." 

"She  seemed  to  be  quite  well.  She  is  here ;  that  is,  unless 
she  has  gone  away." 

"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  I  was  talking  to  her.  Looking  very 
well  indeed."  Then  there  was  a  considerable  pause ;  for 
Charlotte  could  not  at  once  make  Madeline  understand  why 
she  was  to  be  sent  home  in  a  hurry  without  her  brother. 

"Are  you  returning  to  Plumstead,  Mrs.  Bold  ?"  Mr.  Ara- 
bin merely  asked  this  by  way  of  making  conversation,  but  he 

407 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

immediately  perceived  that  he  was  approaching  dangerous 
ground. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Bold,  very  quietly;  "I  am  going  home  to 
Barchester." 

"Oh,  ah,  yes.  I  had  forgotten  that  you  had  returned." 
And  then  Mr.  Arabin,  finding  it  impossible  to  say  anything 
further,  stood  silent  till  Charlotte  had  completed  her  plans, 
and  Mrs.  Bold  stood  equally  silent,  intently  occupied  as  it 
appeared  in  the  arrangement  of  her  rings. 

And  yet  these  two  people  were  thoroughly  in  love  with  each 
other;  and  though  one  was  a  middle-aged  clergyman,  and 
the  other  a  lady  at  any  rate  past  the  wishy-washy  bread-and- 
butter  period  of  life,  they  were  as  unable  to  tell  their  own 
minds  to  each  other  as  any  Damon  and  Phillis,  whose  united 
ages  would  not  make  up  that  to  which  Mr.  Arabin  had  al- 
ready attained. 

Madeline  Neroni  consented  to  her  sister's  proposal,  and 
then  the  two  ladies  again  went  off  in  quest  of  Bertie  Stanhope. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

ULLATHORNE    SPORTS. ACT    III. 

AND  now  Miss  Thome's  guests  were  beginning  to  take 
their  departure,  and  the  amusement  of  those  who  re- 
mained was  becoming  slack.  It  was  getting  dark,  and  ladies 
in  morning  costumes  were  thinking  that  if  they  were  to  ap- 
pear by  candle-light  they  ought  to  readjust  themselves.  Some 
young  gentlemen  had  been  heard  to  talk  so  loud  that  prudent 
mammas  determined  to  retire  judiciously,  and  the  more  dis- 
creet of  the  male  sex,  whose  libations  had  been  moderate,  felt 
that  there  was  not  much  more  left  for  them  to  do. 

Morning  parties,  as  a  rule,  are  failures.  People  never 
know  how  to  get  away  from  them  gracefully.  A  picnic  on 
an  island  or  a  mountain  or  in  a  wood  may  perhaps  be  per- 
mitted. There  is  no  master  of  the  mountain  bound  by  cour- 
tesy to  bid  you  stay  while  in  his  heart  he  is  longing  for  your 
departure.  But  in  a  private  house  or  in  private  grounds  a 
morning  party  is  a  bore.     One  is  called  on  to  eat  and  drink 

408 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

at  unnatural  hours.  One  is  obliged  to  give  up  the  day  which 
is  useful,  and  is  then  left  without  resource  for  the  evening 
which  is  useless.  One  gets  home  fagged  and  desoeuvre,  and 
yet  at  an  hour  too  early  for  bed.  There  is  no  comfortable 
resource  left.  Cards  in  these  genteel  days  are  among 
the  things  tabooed,  and  a  rubber  of  whist  is  impracti- 
cable. 

All  this  began  now  to  be  felt.  Some  young  people  had 
come  with  some  amount  of  hope  that  they  might  get  up  a 
dance  in  the  evening,  and  were  unwilling  to  leave  till  all 
such  hope  was  at  an  end.  Others,  fearful  of  staying  longer 
than  was  expected,  had  ordered  their  carriages  early,  and 
were  doing  their  best  to  go,  solicitous  for  their  servants  and 
horses.  The  countess  and  her  noble  brood  were  among  the 
first  to  leave,  and  as  regarded  the  Hon.  George,  it  was  cer- 
tainly time  that  he  did  so.  Her  ladyship  was  in  a  great  fret 
and  fume.  Those  horrid  roads  would,  she  was  sure,  be  the 
death  of  her  if  unhappily  she  were  caught  in  them  by  the 
dark  night.  The  lamps  she  was  assured  were  good,  but  no 
lamp  could  withstand  the  jolting  of  the  roads  of  East  Barset- 
shire.  The  De  Courcy  property  lay  in  the  western  division 
of  th.e  county. 

Mrs.  Proudie  could  not  stay  when  the  countess  was  gone. 
So  the  bishop  was  searched  for  by  the  Revs.  Messrs.  Grey 
and  Green,  and  found  in  one  corner  of  the  tent  enjoying  him- 
self thoroughly  in  a  disquisition  on  the  hebdomadal  board. 
He  obeyed,  however,  the  behests  of  his  lady  without  finish- 
ing the  sentence  in  which  he  was  promising  to  Dr.  Gwynne 
that  his  authority  at  Oxford  should  remain  unimpaired ;  and 
the  episcopal  horses  turned  their  noses  towards  the  palatial 
stables.  Then  the  Grantlys  went.  Before  they  did  so,  Mr. 
Harding  managed  to  whisper  a  word  into  his  daughter's  ear. 
Of  course,  he  said  he  would  undeceive  the  Grantlys  as  to  that 
foolish  rumour  about  Mr.  Slope. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Eleanor;  "pray  do  not — pray  wait  till 
I  see  you.  You  will  be  home  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then  I 
will  explain  to  you  everything." 

"I  shall  be  home  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

*T  am  so  glad,"  said  Eleanor.  "You  will  come  and  dine 
with  me,  and  then  we  shall  be  so  comfortable." 

409 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mr.  Harding  promised.  He  did  not  exactly  know  what 
there  was  to  be  explained,  or  why  Dr.  Grantly's  mind  should 
not  be  disabused  of  the  mistake  into  which  he  had  fallen ;  but 
nevertheless  he  promised.  He  owed  some  reparation  to  his 
daughter,  and  he  thought  that  he  might  best  make  it  by 
obedience. 

And  thus  the  people  were  tiiinning  ofif  by  degrees,  as 
Charlotte  and  Eleanor  walked  about  in  quest  of  Bertie.  Their 
search  might  have  been  long,  had  they  not  happened  to  hear 
his  voice.  He  was  comfortably  ensconced  in  the  ha-ha,  with 
his  back  to  the  sloping  side,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  eagerly 
engaged  in  conversation  with  some  youngster  from  the  fur- 
ther side  of  the  county,  whom  he  had  never  met  before,  who 
was  also  smoking  under  Bertie's  pupilage,  and  listening  with 
open  ears  to  an  account  given  by  his  companion  of  some  of 
the  pastimes  of  Eastern  clime. 

"Bertie,  I  am  seeking  you  everywhere,"  said  Charlotte. 
"Come  up  here  at  once." 

Bertie  looked  up  out  of  the  ha-ha,  and  saw  the  two  ladies 
before  him.  As  there  was  nothing  for  him  but  to  obey,  he 
got  up  and  threw  away  his  cigar.  From  the  first  moment  of 
his  acquaintance  with  her  he  had  liked  Eleanor  Bold.  Had 
he  been  left  to  his  own  devices,  had  she  been  penniless,  and 
had  it  then  been  quite  out  of  the  question  that  he  should 
marry  her,  he  would  most  probably  have  fallen  violently  in 
love  with  her.  But  now  he  could  not  help  regarding  her 
somewhat  as  he  did  the  marble  workshops  at  Carrara,  as  he 
had  done  his  easel  and  palette,  as  he  had  done  the  lawyer's 
chambers  in  London ;  in  fact,  as  he  had  invariably  regarded 
everything  by  which  it  had  been  proposed  to  him  to  obtain 
the  means  of  living.  Eleanor  Bold  appeared  before  him,  no 
longer  as  a  beautiful  woman,  but  as  a  new  profession  called 
matrimony.  It  was  a  profession  indeed  requiring  but  little 
labour,  and  one  in  which  an  income  was  insured  to  him.  But 
nevertheless  he  had  been  as  it  were  goaded  on  to  it;  his  sis- 
ter had  talked  to  him  of  Eleanor,  just  as  she  had  talked  of 
busts  and  portraits.  Bertie  did  not  dislike  money,  but  he 
hated  the  very  thought  of  earning  it.  He  was  now  called 
away  from  his  pleasant  cigar  to  earn  it,  by  offering  himself 
as  a  husband  to  Mrs.  Bold.  •  The  work  indeed  was  made 

410 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

easy  enough ;  for  in  lieu  of  his  having  to  seek  the  widow,  the 
widow  had  apparently  come  to  seek  him. 

He  made  some  sudden  absurd  excuse  to  his  auditor,  and 
then  throwing  away  his  cigar,  cUmbed  up  the  wall  of  the 
ha-ha  and  joined  the  ladies  on  the  lawn. 

"Come  and  give  Mrs.  Bold  an  arm,"  said  Charlotte,  "while 
I  set  you  on  a  piece  of  duty  which,  as  a  preux  chevalier, 
you  must  immediately  perform.  Your  personal  danger  will, 
I  fear,  be  insignificant,  as  your  antagonist  is  a  clergy- 
man." 

Bertie  immediately  gave  his  arm  to  Eleanor,  walking  be- 
tween her  and  his  sister.  He  had  lived  too  long  abroad  to 
fall  into  the  Englishman's  habit  of  offering  each  an  arm  to 
two  ladies  at  the  same  time,  a  habit,  by  the  bye,  which  for- 
eigners regard  as  an  approach  to  bigamy,  or  a  sort  of  incip- 
ient Mormonism. 

The  little  history  of  Mr.  Slope's  misconduct  was  then  told 
to  Bertie  by  his  sister,  Eleanor's  ears  tingling  the  while.  And 
well  they  might  tingle.  If  it  were  necessary  to  speak  of  the 
outrage  at  all,  why  should  it  be  spoken  of  to  such  a  person 
as  Mr.  Stanhope,  and  why  in  her  own  hearing?  She  knew 
she  was  wrong,  and  was  unhappy  and  dispirited,  and  yet  she 
could  think  of  no  way  to  extricate  herself,  no  way  to  set  her- 
self right.  Charlotte  spared  her  as  much  as  she  possibly 
could,  spoke  of  the  whole  thing  as  though  Mr.  Slope  had 
taken  a  glass  of  wine  too  much,  said  that  of  course  there 
would  be  nothing  more  about  it,  but  that  steps  must  be  taken 
to  exclude  Mr.  Slope  from  the  carriage. 

"Mrs.  Bold  need  be  under  no  alarm  about  that."  said  Ber- 
tie, "for  Mr.  Slope  has  gone  this  hour  past.  He  told  me 
that  business  made  it  necessary  that  he  should  start  at  once 
for  Barchester." 

"He  is  not  so  tipsy,  at  any  rate,  but  what  he  knows  his 
fault,"  said  Charlotte.  "Well,  my  dear,  that  is  one  difficulty 
over.  Now  I'll  leave  you  with  your  true  knight,  and  gel 
Madeline  off  as  quickly  as  I  can.  The  carriage  is  here,  I 
suppose,  Bertie?" 

"It  has  been  here  for  the  last  hour." 

"That's  well.  Good  bye,  my  dear.  Of  course  you'll  come 
in  to  tea.     I  shall  trust  to  you  to  bring  her,  Bertie ;  even  by 

411 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

force  if  necessary."  And  so  saying,  Charlotte  ran  off  across 
the  lawn,  leaving  her  brother  alone  with  the  widow. 

As  Miss  Stanhope  went  off,  Eleanor  bethought  herself 
that,  as  Mr.  Slope  had  taken  his  departure,  there  no  longer 
existed  any  necessity  for  separating  Mr.  Stanhope  from  his 
sister  Madeline,  who  so  much  needed  his  aid.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  he  should  remain  so  as  to  preoccupy  Mr. 
Slope's  place  in  the  carriage,  and  act  as  a  social  policeman 
to  effect  the  exclusion  of  that  disagreeable  gentleman.  But 
Mr.  Slope  had  effected  his  own  exclusion,  and  there  was  no 
possible  reason  now  why  Bertie  should  not  go  with  his  sister. 
At  least  Eleanor  saw  none,  and  she  said  as  much. 

"Oh,  let  Charlotte  have  her  own  way,"  said  he.  "She  has 
arranged  it,  and  there  will  be  no  end  of  confusion,  if  we 
make  another  change.  Charlotte  always  arranges  everything 
in  our  house ;  and  rules  us  like  a  despot." 

"But  the  signora?"  said  Eleanor. 

"Oh,  the  signora  can  do  very  well  without  me.  Indeed, 
she  will  have  to  do  without  me,"  he  added,  thinking  rather 
of  his  studies  in  Carrara,  than  of  his  Barchester  hymeneals. 

"Why,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us  ?"  asked  Eleanor. 

It  has  been  said  that  Bertie  Stanhope  was  a  man  without 
principle.  He  certainly  was  so.  He  had  no  power  of  using 
active  mental  exertion  to  keep  himself  from  doing  evil.  Evil 
had  no  ugliness  in  his  eyes ;  virtue  no  beauty.  He  was  void 
of  any  of  these  feelings  which  actuate  men  to  do  good.  But 
he  was  perhaps  equally  void  of  those  which  actuate  men  to 
do  evil.  He  got  into  debt  with  utter  recklessness,  thinking 
nothing  as  to  whether  the  tradesmen  would  ever  be  paid  or 
not.  But  he  did  not  invent  active  schemes  of  deceit  for  the 
sake  of  extracting  the  goods  of  others.  If  a  man  gave  him 
credit,  that  was  the  man's  look-out ;  Bertie  Stanhope  troubled 
himself  nothing  further.  In  borrowing  money  he  did  the 
same ;  he  gave  people  references  to  "his  governor ;"  told 
them  that  the  "old  chap"  had  a  good  income;  and  agreed  to 
pay  sixty  per  cent,  for  the  accommodation.  All  this  he  did 
without  a  scruple  of  conscience ;  but  then  he  never  contrived 
active  villainy. 

In  this  affair  of  his  marriage,  it  had  been  represented  to 
him  as  a  matter  of  duty  that  he  ought  to  put  himself  in  pos- 

412 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

session  of  Mrs.  Bold's  hand  and  fortune;  and  at  first  he  had 
so  regarded  it.  About  her  he  had  thought  but  Httle.  It  was 
the  customary  thing  for  men  situated  as  he  was  to  marry  for 
money,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  do  what 
others  around  him  did.  And  so  he  consented.  But  now  he 
began  to  see  the  matter  in  another  light.  He  was  setting 
himself  down  to  catch  this  woman,  as  a  cat  sits  to  catch  a 
mouse.  He  was  to  catch  her,  and  swallow  her  up,  her  and 
her  child,  and  her  houses  and  land,  in  order  that  he  might 
live  on  her  instead  of  on  his  father.  There  was  a  cold,  cal- 
culating, cautious  cunning  about  this  quite  at  variance  with 
Bertie's  character.  The  prudence  of  the  measure  was  quite 
as  antagonistic  to  his  feelings  as  the  iniquity. 

And  then,  should  he  be  successful,  what  would  be  the  re- 
ward? Having  satisfied  his  creditors  with  half  of  the  wid- 
ow's fortune,  he  would  be  allowed  to  sit  down  quietly  at  Bar- 
chester,  keeping  economical  house  with  the  remainder.  His 
duty  would  be  to  rock  the  cradle  of  the  late  Mr.  Bold's  child, 
and  his  highest  excitement  a  demure  party  at  Plumstead  rec- 
tory, should  it  ultimately  turn  out  that  the  archdeacon  would 
be  sufficiently  reconciled  to  receive  him. 

There  was  very  little  in  the  programme  to  allure  such  a 
man  as  Bertie  Stanhope.  Would  not  the  Carrara  workshop, 
or  whatever  worldly  career  fortune  might  have  in  store  for 
him,  would  not  almost  anything  be  better  than  this?  The 
lady  herself  was  undoubtedly  all  that  was  desirable;  but  the 
most  desirable  lady  becomes  nauseous  when  she  has  to  be 
taken  as  a  pill.  He  was  pledged  to  his  sister,  however,  and 
let  him  quarrel  with  whom  he  would,  it  behoved  him  not  to 
quarrel  with  her.  If  she  were  lost  to  him  all  would  be  lost 
that  he  could  ever  hope  to  derive  henceforward  from  the 
paternal  roof-tree.  His  mother  was  apparently  indiflFerent 
to  his  weal  or  woe,  to  his  wants  or  his  warfare.  His  father's 
brow  got  blacker  and  blacker  from  day  to  day,  as  the  old 
man  looked  at  his  hopeless  son.  And  as  for  Madeline — poor 
Madeline,  whom  of  all  of  them  he  liked  the  best, — she  had 
enough  to  do  to  shift  for  herself.  No;  come  what  might, 
he  must  cling  to  his  sister  and  obey  her  behests,  let  them  be 
ever  so  stern ;  or  at  the  very  least  seem  to  obey  them.  Could 
not""  some  h'appy  deceit  bring  him  through  in  this  matter  so 

413 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

that  he  might  save  appearances  with  his  sister,  and  yet  not 
betray  the  widow  to  her  ruin  ?  What  if  he  made  a  confeder- 
ate of  Eleanor?  'Twas  in  this  spirit  that  Bertie  Stanhope 
set  about  his  wooing. 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  leave  Barchester?"  asked  Elea- 
nor. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied;  "I  hardly  know  yet  what  I 
am  going  to  do.  But  it  is  at  any  rate  certain  that  I  must  do 
something." 

"You  mean  about  your  profession?"  said  she. 

"Yes,  about  my  profession,  if  you  can  call  it  one." 

"And  is  it  not  one?"  said  Eleanor.  "Were  I  a  man,  I 
know  none  I  should  prefer  to  it,  except  painting.  And  I  be- 
lieve the  one  is  as  much  in  your  power  as  the  other." 

"Yes,  just  about  equally  so,"  said  Bertie,  with  a  little  touch 
of  inward  satire  directed  at  himself.  He  knew  in  his  heart 
that  he  would  never  make  a  penny  by  either. 

"I  have  often  wondered,  Mr.  Stanhope,  why  you  do  not 
exert  yourself  more,"  said  Eleanor,  who  felt  a  friendly  fond- 
ness for  the  man  with  whom  she  was  walking.  "But  I  know 
it  is  very  impertinent  in  me  to  say  so." 

"Impertinent !"  said  he.  "Not  so,  but  much  too  kind.  It 
is  much  too  kind  in  you  to  take  any  interest  in  so  idle  a 
scamp." 

"But  you  are  not  a  scamp,  though  you  are  perhaps  idle ; 
and  I  do  take  an  interest  in  you ;  a  very  great  interest,"  she 
added,  in  a  voice  which  almost  made  him  resolve  to  change 
his  mind.  "And  when  I  call  you  idle,  I  know  you  are  only 
so  for  the  present  moment.  Why  can't  you  settle  steadily  to 
work  here  in  Barchester?" 

"And  make  busts  of  the  bishop,  dean  and  chapter?  or  per- 
haps, if  I  achieve  a  great  success,  obtain  a  commission  to 
put  up  an  elaborate  tombstone  over  a  prebendary's  widow,  a 
dead  lady  with  a  Grecian  nose,  a  bandeau,  and  an  intricate 
lace  veil ;  lying  of  course  on  a  marble  sofa,  from  among  the 
legs  of  which  Death  will  be  creeping  out  and  poking  at  his 
victim  with  a  small  toasting-fork." 

Eleanor  laughed ;  but  yet  she  thought  that  if  the  surviving 
prebendary  paid  the  bill,  the  object  of  the  artist  as  a  profes- 
sional man  would,  in  a  great  measure,  be  obtained. 

414 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

"I  don't  know  about  the  dean  and  chapter  and  the  preben- 
dary's widow,"  said  Eleanor.  "Of  course  you  must  take 
them  as  they  come.  But  the  fact  of  your  having  a  great 
cathedral  in  which  such  ornaments  are  required,  could  not 
but  be  in  your  favour." 

"No  real  artist  could  descend  to  the  ornamentation  of  a 
cathedral,"  said  Bertie,  who  had  his  ideas  of  the  high  ecstatic 
ambition  of  art,  as  indeed  all  artists  have,  who  are  not  in  re- 
ceipt of  a  good  income.  "Buildings  should  be  fitted  to  grace 
the  sculpture,  not  the  sculpture  to  grace  the  building," 

"Yes,  when  the  work  of  art  is  good  enough  to  merit  it. 
Do  you,  Mr.  Stanhope,  do  something  sufficiently  excellent, 
and  we  ladies  of  Barchester  will  erect  for  it  a  fitting  recep- 
tacle.    Come,  what  shall  the  subject  be?" 

"I'll  put  you  in  your  pony  chair,  Mrs.  Bold,  as  Dannecker 
put  Ariadne  on  her  lion.  Only  you  must  promise  to  sit  for 
me." 

"My  ponies  are  too  tame,  I  fear,  and  my  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  will  not  look  so  well  in  marble  as  the  lace  veil  of 
the  prebendary's  wife." 

"If  you  will  not  consent  to  that,  Mrs.  Bold,  I  will  consent 
to  try  no  other  subject  in  Barchester." 

"You  are  determined,  then,  to  push  your  fortune  in  other 
lands  ?" 

"I  am  determined,"  said  Bertie,  slowly  and  significantly,  as 
■he  tried  to  bring  up  his  mind  to  a  great  resolve ;  "I  am  de- 
termined in  this  matter  to  be  guided  wholly  by  you." 

"Wholly  by  me !"  said  Eleanor,  astonished  at,  and  not 
quite  liking,  his  altered  manner. 

"Wholly  by  you,"  said  Bertie,  dropping  his  companion's 
arm,  and  standing  before  her  on  the  path.  In  their  walk 
they  had  come  exactly  to  the  spot  in  which  Eleanor  had  been 
provoked  into  slapping  Mr.  Slope's  face.  Could,  it  be  pos- 
sible that  this  place  was  peculiarly  unpropitious  to  her  com- 
fort? could  it  be  possible  that  she  should  here  have  to  en- 
counter yet  another  amorous  swain  ? 

"If  you  will  be  guided  by  me,  Mr.  Stanhope,  you  will  set 
yourself  down  to  steady  and  persevering  work,  and  you  will 
be  ruled  by  your  father  as  to  the  place  in  which  it  will  be 
most  advisable  for  you  to  do  so." 

415 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  prudent,  if  only  it  were  practi- 
cable. But  now,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is 
that  I  will  be  guided  by  you,  and  why.  Will  you  let  me 
tell  you?" 

"I  really  do  not  know  what  you  can  have  to  tell." 

"No, — you  cannot  know.  It  is  impossible  that  you  should. 
But  we  have  been  very  good  friends,  Mrs.  Bold,  have  we 
not?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  have,"  said  she,  observing  in  his  de- 
meanour an  earnestness  very  unusual  with  him. 

"You  were  kind  enough  to  say  just  now  that  you  took  an 
interest  in  me,  and  I  was  perhaps  vain  enough  to  believe 
you." 

"There  is  no  vanity  in  that;  I  do  so  as  your  sister's 
brother, — and  as  my  own  friend  also." 

"Well,  I  don't  deserve  that  you  should  feel  so  kindly 
towards  me,"  said  Bertie;  "but  upon  my  word  I  am  very 
grateful  for  it,"  and  he  paused  awhile,  hardly  knowing  how 
to  introduce  the  subject  that  he  had  in  hand. 

And  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  found  it  difficult.  He  had 
to  make  known  to  his  companion  the  scheme  that  had  been 
prepared  to  rob  her  of  her  wealth ;  he  had  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  intended  to  marry  her  without  loving  her,  or  else  that  he 
loved  her  without  intending  to  marry  her;  and  he  had  also 
to  bespeak  from  her  not  only  his  own  pardon,  but  also  that 
of  his  sister,  and  induce  Mrs.  Bold  to  protest  in  her  future* 
communion  with  Charlotte  that  an  offer  had  been  duly  made 
to  her  and  duly  rejected. 

Bertie  Stanhope  was  not  prone  to  be  very  diffident  of  his 
own  conversational  powers,  but  it  did  seem  to  him  that  he 
was  about  to  tax  them  almost  too  far.  He  hardly  knew 
where  to  begin,  and  he  hardly  knew  where  he  should 
end. 

By  this  time  Eleanor  was  again  walking  on  slowly  by  his 
side,  not  taking  his  arm  as  she  had  heretofore  done,  but  lis- 
tening very  intently  for  whatever  Bertie  might  have  to  say 
to  her. 

"I  wish  to  be  guided  by  you,"  said  he ;  "and,  indeed,  in  this 
matter,  there  is  no  one  else  who  can  set  me  right." 

"Oh,  that  must  be  nonsense,"  said  she. 

416 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

"Well,  listen  to  me  now,  Mrs.  Bold;  and  if  you  can  help 
it,  pray  don't  be  angry  with  me." 

"Angry !"  said  she. 

"Oh,  indeed  you  will  have  cause  to  be  so.  You  know  how 
very  much  attached  to  you  my  sister  Charlotte  is." 

Eleanor  acknowledged  that  she  did. 

"Indeed  she  is ;  I  never  knew  her  to  love  any  one  so  warm- 
ly on  so  short  an  acquaintance.  You  know  also  how  well 
she  loves  me?" 

Eleanor  now  made  no  answer,  but  she  felt  the  blood  tingle 
in  her  cheek  as  she  gathered  from  what  he  said  the  probable 
result  of  this  double-barrelled  love  on  the  part  of  Miss  Stan- 
hope. 

"I  am  her  only  brother,  Mrs.  Bold,  and  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  she  should  love  me.  But  you  do  not  yet  know 
Charlotte, — you  do  not  know  how  entirely  the  well-being  of 
our  family  hangs  on  her.  Without  her  to  manage  for  us,  I 
do  not  know  how  we  should  get  on  from  day  to  day.  You 
cannot  yet  have  observed  all  this." 

Eleanor  had  indeed  observed  a  good  deal  of  this ;  she  did 
not  however  now  say  so,  but  allowed  him  to  proceed  with  his 
story. 

"You  cannot  therefore  be  surprised  that  Charlotte  should 
be  most  anxious  to  do  the  best  for  us  all." 

Eleanor  said  that  she  was  not  at  all  surprised. 

"And  she  has  had  a  very  difficult  game  to  play,  Mrs.  Bold 
— a  very  difficult  game.  Poor  Madeline's  unfortunate  mar- 
riage and  terrible  accident,  my  mother's  ill  health,  my  father's 
absence  from  England,  and  last,  and  worst  perhaps,  my  own 
roving,  idle  spirit  have  almost  been  too  much  for  her.  You 
cannot  wonder  if  among  all  her  cares  one  of  the  foremost  is 
to  see  me  settled  in  the  world." 

Eleanor  on  this  occasion  expressed  no  acquiescence.  She 
certainly  supposed  that  a  formal  offer  was  to  be  made,  and 
could  not  but  think  that  so  singular  an  exordium  was  never 
before  made  by  a  gentleman  in  a  similar  position.  Mr.  Slope 
had  annoyed  her  by  the  excess  of  his  ardour.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  no  such  danger  was  to  be  feared  from  Mr.  Stan- 
hope. Prudential  motives  alone  actuated  him.  Not  only  was 
he  about  to  make  love  because  his  sister  told  him,  but  he 

"  ,417 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

also  took  the  precaution  of  explaining  all  this  before  he  be- 
gan. 'Twas  thus,  we  may  presume,  that  the  matter  present- 
ed itself  to  Mrs.  Bold. 

When  he  had  got  so  far,  Bertie  began  poking  the  gravel 
with  a  little  cane  which  he  carried.  He  still  kept  moving  on, 
but  very  slowly,  and  his  companion  moved  slowly  by  his  side, 
not  inclined  to  assist  him  in  the  task  the  performance  of 
which  appeared  to  be  difficult  to  him. 

"Knowing  how  fond  she  is  of  yourself,  Mrs.  Bold,  cannot 
you  imagine  what  scheme  should  have  occurred  to  her?" 

"I  can  imagine  no  better  scheme,  Mr.  Stanhope,  than  the 
one  I  proposed  to  you  just  now." 

"No,"  said  he,  somewhat  lack-a-daisically ;  "I  suppose  that 
would  be  the  best;  but  Charlotte  thinks  another  plan  might 
be  joined  with  it. — She  wants  me  to  marry  you." 

A  thousand  remembrances  flashed  across  Eleanor's  mind 
all  in  ^  a  moment, — how  Charlotte  had  talked  about  and 
praised  her  brother,  how  she  had  continually  contrived  to 
throw  the  two  of  them  together,  how  she  had  encouraged  all 
manner  of  little  intimacies,  how  she  had  with  singular  cor- 
diality persisted  in  treating  Eleanor  as  one  of  the  family.  All 
this  had  been  done  to  secure  her  comfortable  income  for  the 
benefit  of  one  of  the  family ! 

Such  a  feeling  as  this  is  very  bitter  when  it  first  impresses 
itself  on  a  young  mind.  To  the  old  such  plots  and  plans,  such 
matured  schemes  for  obtaining  the  goods  of  this  world  with- 
out the  trouble  of  earning  them,  such  long-headed  attempts 
to  convert  "tuum"  into  "meum,"  are  the  ways  of  life  to 
which  they  are  accustomed.  'Tis  thus  that  many  live,  and 
it  therefore  behoves  all  those  who  are  well  to  do  in  the  world 
to  be  on  their  guard  against  those  who  are  not.  With  them 
it  is  the  success  that  disgusts,  not  the  attempt.  But  Eleanor 
had  not  yet  learnt  to  look  on  her  money  as  a  source  of  dan- 
ger; she  had  not  begun  to  regard  herself  as  fair  game  to  be 
hunted  down  by  hungry  gentlemen.  She  had  enjoyed  the 
society  of  the  Stanhopes,  she  had  greatly  liked  the  cordiality 
of  Charlotte,  and  had  been  happy  in  her  new  friends.  Now 
she  saw  the  cause  of  all  this  kindness,  and  her  mind  was 
opened  to  a  new  phase  of  human  life. 

"Miss  Stanhope,"  said  she,  haughtily,  "has  been  contriving 

418 


ULLATHORNE    SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

for  me  a  great  deal  of  honour,  but  she  might  have  saved  her- 
self the  trouble.     I  am  not  sufficiently  ambitious." 

"Pray  don't  be  angry  with  her,  Mrs.  Bold,"  said  he,  "or 
with  me  either." 

"Certainly  not  with  you,  Mr.  Stanhope,"  said  she,  with 
considerable  sarcasm  in  her  tone.     "Certainly  not  with  you/' 

"No, — nor  with  her,"  said  he,  imploringly. 

"And  why,  may  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Stanhope,  have  you  told 
me  this  singular  story?  For  I  may  presume  I  may  judge 
by  your  manner  of  telling  it,  that — that — that  you  and  your 
sister  are  not  exactly  of  one  mind  on  the  subject." 

"No,  we  are  not." 

"And  if  so,"  said  Mrs.  Bold,  who  was  now  really  angry 
with  the  unnecessary  insult  which  she  thought  had  been  of- 
fered to  her,  "and  if  so,  why  has  it  been  worth  your  while 
to  tell  me  all  this  ?" 

"I  did  once  think,   Mrs.  Bold, — that  you — that  you " 

The  widow  now  again  became  entirely  impassive,  and 
would  not  lend  the  slightest  assistance  to  her  companion. 

"I  did  once  think  that  you  perhaps  might, — might  have 
been  taught  to  regard  me  as  more  than  a  friend." 

"Never !"  said  Mrs.  Bold,  "never.  If  I  have  ever  allowed 
myself  to  do  anything  to  encourage  such  an  idea,  I  have 
been  very  much  to  blame, — very  much  to  blame  indeed." 

"You  never  have,"  said  Bertie,  who  really  had  a  good- 
natured  anxiety  to  make  what  he  said  as  little  unpleasant  as 
possible.  "You  never  have,  and  I  have  seen  for  some  time 
that  I  had  no  chance;  but  my  sister's  hopes  ran  higher.  I 
have  not  mistaken  you,  Mrs.  Bold,  though  perhaps  she  has." 

"Then  why  have  you  said  all  this  to  me?" 

"Because  I  must  not  anger  her." 

"And  will  not  this  anger  her?  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Stan- 
hope, I  do  not  understand  the  policy  of  your  family.  Oh, 
how  I  wish  I  was  at  home !"  And  as  she  expressed  the  wish, 
she  could  restrain  herself  no  longer,  but  burst  out  into  a  flood 
of  tears. 

Poor  Bertie  was  greatly  moved.  "You  shall  have  the  car- 
riage to  yourself  going  home,"  said  he ;  "at  least  you  and  my 
father.  As  for  me  I  can  walk,  or  for  the  matter  of  that  it 
does  not  much  signify  what  I  do."     He  perfectly  understood 

419 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

that  part  of  Eleanor's  grief  arose  from  the  apparent  necessity 
of  her  going  back  to  Barchester  in  the  carriage  with  her  sec- 
ond suitor. 

This  somewhat  mollified  her.  "Oh,  Mr.  Stanhope,"  said 
she,  "why  should  you  have  made  me  so  miserable?  What 
will  you  have  gained  by  telling  me  all  this?" 

He  had  not  even  yet  explained  to  her  the  most  difficult  part 
of  his  proposition ;  he  had  not  told  her  that  she  was  to  be  a 
party  to  the  little  deception  which  he  intended  to  play  off 
upon  his  sister?  This  suggestion  had  still  to  be  made,  and 
as  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  he  proceeded  to  make  it. 

We  need  not  follow  him  through  the  whole  of  his  state- 
ment. At  last,  and  not  without  considerable  difficulty,  he 
made  Eleanor  understand  why  he  had  let  her  into  his  confi- 
dence, seeing  that  he  no  longer  intended  her  the  honour  of  a 
formal  offer.  At  last  he  made  her  comprehend  the  part 
which  she  was  destined  to  play  in  this  little  family  comedy. 

But  when  she  did  understand  it,  she  was  only  more  angry 
with  him  than  ever :  more  angry,  not  only  with  him,  but  with 
Charlotte  also.  Her  fair  name  was  to  be  bandied  about  be- 
tween them  in  different  senses,  and  each  sense  false.  She 
was  to  be  played  off  by  the  sister  against  the  father ;  and  then 
by  the  brother  against  the  sister.  Her  dear  friend  Charlotte, 
with  all  her  agreeable  sympathy  and  affection,  was  striving 
to  sacrifice  her  for  the  Stanhope  family  welfare;  and  Bertie, 
who,  as  he  now  proclaimed  himself,  was  over  head  and  ears 
in  debt,  completed  the  compliment  of  owning  that  he  did  not 
care  to  have  his  debts  paid  at  so  great  a  sacrifice  of  himself. 
Then  she  was  asked  to  conspire  together  with  this  unwilling 
suitor,  for  the  sake  of  making  the  family  believe  that  he  had 
in  obedience  to  their  commands  done  his  best  to  throw  him- 
self thus  away ! 

She  lifted  up  her  face  when  he  had  finished,  and  looking 
at  him  with  much  dignity,  even  through  her  tears,  she  said — 

"I  regret  to  say  it,  Mr.  Stanhope;  but  after  what  has 
passed,  I  believe  that  all  intercourse  between  your  family  and 
myself  had  better  cease." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  had,"  said  Bertie  naively ;  "perhaps  that 
will  be  better,  at  any  rate  for  a  time;^and  then  Charlotte  will 
think  you  are  offended  at  what  I  have  done." 

420 


ULLATHORNE   SPORTS.— ACT    III. 

"And  now  I  will  go  back  to  the  house,  if  you  please,"  said 
Eleanor.  "1  can  find  my  way  by  myself,  Mr.  Stanhope: 
after  what  has  passed,"  she  added,  'T  would  rather  go  alone." 

"But  I  must  find  the  carriage  for  you,  Mrs.  Bold,  and  I 
must  tell  my  father  that  you  will  return  with  him  alone,  and 
I  must  make  some  excuse  to  him  for  not  going  with  you; 
and  I  must  bid  the  servant  put  you  down  at  your  own  house, 
for  I  suppose  you  will  not  now  choose  to  see  them  again  in 
the  close." 

There  was  a  truth  about  this,  and  a  perspicuity  in  making 
arrangements  for  lessening  her  immediate  embarrassment, 
which  had  some  effect  in  softening  Eleanor's  anger.  So  she 
suffered  herself  to  walk  by  his  side  over  the  now  deserted 
lawn,  till  they  came  to  the  drawing-room  window.  There 
was  something  about  Bertie  Stanhope  which  gave  him,  in  the 
estimation  of  every  one,  a  different  standing  from  that  which 
any  other  man  would  occupy  under  similar  circumstances. 
Angry  as  Eleanor  was,  and  great  as  was  her  cause  for  anger, 
she  was  not  half  as  angry  with  him  as  she  would  have  been 
with  any  one  else.  He  was  apparently  so  simple,  so  good- 
natured,  so  unaffected  and  easy  to  talk  to,  that  she  had  al- 
ready half-forgiven  him  before  he  was  at  the  drawing-room 
window.  When  they  arrived  there.  Dr.  Stanhope  was  sit- 
ting nearly  alone  with  Mr,  and  Miss  Thorne;  one  or  two 
other  unfortunates  were  there,  who  from  one  cause  or  an- 
other were  still  delayed  in  getting  away ;  but  they  were  every 
moment  getting  fewer  in  number. 

As  soon  as  he  had  handed  Eleanor  over  to  his  father,  Ber- 
tie started  off  to  the  front  gate,  in  search  of  the  carriage,  and 
there  waited  leaning  patiently  against  the  front  wall,  and 
comfortably  smoking  a  cigar,  till  it"  came  up.  When  he  re- 
turned to  the  room  Dr.  Stanhope  and  Eleanor  were  alone 
with  their  hosts. 

"At  last,  Miss  Thorne,"  said  he  cheerily,  "I  have  come  to 
relieve  you.  Mrs.  Bold  and  my  father  are  the  last  roses  of 
the  very  delightful  summer  you  have  given  us,  and  desirable 
as  Mrs.  Bold's  society  always  is,  now  at  least  you  must  be 
glad  to  see  the  last  flowers  plucked  from  the  tree." 

Miss  Thorne  declared  that  she  was  delighted  to  have  Mrs. 
Bold  and  Dr.  Stanhope  still  with  her ;  and  Mr.  Thome  would 

421 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

have  said  the  same,  had  he  not  been  checked  by  a  yawn, 
which  he  could  not  suppress. 

"Father,  will  you  give  your  arm  to  Mrs.  Bold?"  said 
Bertie :  and  so  the  last  adieux  were  made,  and  the  prebendary 
led  out  Mrs.  Bold,  followed  by  his  son. 

"I  shall  be  home  soon  after  you,"  said  he,  as  the  two  got 
into  the  carriage. 

"Are  you  not  coming  in  the  carriage?"  said  the  father. 

"No,  no;  I  have  some  one  to  see  on  the  road,  and  shall 
walk.     John,  mind  you  drive  to  Mrs.  Bold's  house  first." 

Eleanor  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw  him  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  bowing  to  her  with  his  usual  gay  smile,  as 
though  nothing  had  happened  to  mar  the  tranquillity  of  the 
day.  ■  It  was  many  a  long  year  before  she  saw  him  again. 
Dr.  Stanhope  hardly  spoke  to  her  on  her  way  home ;  and 
she  was  safely  deposited  by  John  at  her  own  hall-door,  be- 
fore the  carriage  drove  into  the  close. 

And  thus  our  heroine  played  the  last  act  of  that  day's 
melodrame. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

MR,  AND  MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY.       MR.   SLOPE 
IS    ENCOURAGED    BY   THE    PRESS. 

BEFORE  she  started  for  Ullathorne,  Mrs.  Proudie,  care- 
ful soul,  caused  two  letters  to  be  written,  one  by  her- 
self and  one  by  her  lord,  to  the  inhabitants  of  Puddingdale 
vicarage,  which  made  happy  the  hearth  of  those  within  it. 
As  soon  as  the  departure  of  the  horses  left  the  bishop's 
stable-groom  free  for  other  services,  that  humble  denizen  of 
the  diocese  started  on  the  bishop's  own  pony  with  the  two 
despatches.  We  have  had  so  many  letters  lately  that  we 
will  spare  ourselves  these.  That  from  the  bishop  was  sim- 
ply a  request  that  Mr.  Quiverful  would  wait  upon  his  lord- 
ship the  next  morning  at  ii  a.  m.  ;  and  that  from  the  lady 
was  as  simply  a  request  that  Mrs.  Quiverful  would  do  the 
same  by  her,  though  it  was  couched  in  somewhat  longer  and 
more  grandiloquent  phraseology. 

422 


MR.  AND  MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

It  had  become  a  point  of  conscience  with  Mrs.  Proudie  to 
urge  the  settlement  of  this  great  hospital  question.  She  was 
resolved  that  Mr.  Quiverful  should  have  it.  She  was  re- 
solved that  there  should  be  no  more  doubt  or  delay,  no  more 
refusals  and  resignations,  no  more  secret  negotiations  carried 
on  by  Mr.  Slope  on  his  own  account  in  opposition  to  her 
behests. 

"Bishop,"  she  said,  immediately  after  breakfast,  on  the 
morning  of  that  eventful  day,  "have  you  signed  the  appoint- 
ment yet?" 

"No,  my  dear,  not  yet ;  it  is  not  exactly  signed  as  yet." 

"Then  do  it,"  said^he  lady. 

The  bishop  did  it ;  and  a  very  pleasant  day  indeed  he  spent 
at  Ullathorne.  And  when  he  got  home  he  had  a  glass  of  hot 
negus  in  his  wife's  sitting-room,  and  read  the  last  number  of 
the  "Little  Dorrit"  of  the  day  with  great  inward  satisfac- 
tion. Oh,  husbands,  oh,  my  marital  friends,  what  great  com- 
fort is  there  to  be  derived  from  a  wife  well  obeyed ! 

Much  perturbation  and  flutter,  high  expectation  and  re- 
newed hopes,  were  occasioned  at  Puddingdale,  by  the  receipt 
of  these  episcopal  despatches.  Mrs.  Quiverful,  whose  care- 
ful ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  pony's  feet  as  he  trotted  up 
to  the  vicarage  kitchen  door,  brought  them  in  hurriedly  to 
her  husband.  She  was  at  the  moment  concocting  the  Irish 
stew  destined  to  satisfy  the  noonday  wants  of  fourteen  young 
birds,  let  alone  the  parent  couple.  She  had  taken  the  letters 
from  the  man's  hands  between  the  folds  of  her  capacious 
apron,  so  as  to  save  them  from  the  contamination  of  the  stew, 
and  in  this  guise  she  brought  them  to  her  husband's  desk. 

They  at  once  divided  the  spoil,  each  taking  that  addressed 
to  the  other.  "Quiverful,"  said  she  with  impressive  voice, 
"you  are  to  be  at  the  palace  at  eleven  to-morrow." 

"'And  so  are  you,  my  dear,"  said  he,  almost  gasping  with 
the  importance  of  the  tidings :  and  then  they  exchanged  let- 
ters. 

"She'd  never  have  sent  for  me  again,"  said  the  lady,  "if  it 
wasn't  all  right." 

"Oh!  my  dear,  don't  be  too  certain,"  said  the  gentleman. 
"Onlv  think  if  it  should  be  wrong." 

"She'd  never  have  sent  for  me,  Q.,  if  it  wasn't  all  right," 

423 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

again  argued  the  lady.  "She's  stiff  and  hard  and  proud  as 
pie-crust,  but  I  think  she's  right  at  bottom."  Such  was  Mrs. 
Quiverful's  verdict  about  Mrs.  Proudie,  to  which  in  after 
times  she  always  adhered.  People  when  they  get  their  in- 
come doubled  usually  think  that  those  through  whose  instru- 
mentality this  little  ceremony  is  performed  are  right  at 
bottom. 

"Oh  Letty !"  said  Mr.  Quiverful,  rising  from  his  well-worn 
seat. 

"Oh  Q. !"  said  Mrs.  Quiverful :  and  then  the  two,  unmind- 
ful of  the  kitchen  apron,  the  greasy  fingers,  and  the  adherent 
Irish  stew,  threw  themselves  warmly  into  each  other's  arms. 

"For  heaven's  sake  don't  let  any  one  cajole  you  out  of  it 
again,"  said  the  wife. 

"Let  me  alone  for  that,"  said  the  husband,  with  a  look  of 
almost  fierce  determination,  pressing  his  fist  as  he  spoke  rig- 
idly on  his  desk,  as  though  he  had  Mr.  Slope's  head  below 
his  knuckles,  and  meant  to  keep  it  there. 

"I  wonder  how  soon  it  will  be,"  said  she. 

"I  wonder  whether  it  will  be  at  all,"  said  he,  still  doubtful. 

"Well,  I  won't  say  too  much,"  said  the  lady.  "The  cup 
has  slipped  twice  before,  and  it  may  fall  altogether  this  time ; 
but  I'll  not  believe  it.  He'll  give  you  the  appointment  to- 
morrow.    You'll  find  he  will." 

"Heaven  send  he  may,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful,  solemnly. 
And  who  that  considers  the  weight  of  the  burden  on  this 
man's  back,  will  say  that  the  prayer  was  an  improper  one? 
There  were  fourteen  of  them — fourteen  of  them  living — as 
Mrs.  Quiverful  had  so  powerfully  urged  in  the  presence  of 
the  bishop's  wife.  As  long  as  promotion  cometh  from  any 
human  source,  whether  north  or  south,  east  or  west,  will  not 
such  a  claim  as  this  hold  good,  in  spite  of  all  our  examina- 
tion tests,  detur  digniori's  and  optimist  tendencies?  It  is 
fervently  to  be  hoped  that  it  may.  Till  we  can  become  di- 
vine we  must  be  content  to  be  human,  lest  in  our  hurry  for  a 
change  we  sink  to  something  lower. 

And  then  the  pair  sitting  down  lovingly  together,  talked 
over  all  their  difficulties,  as  they  so  often  did,  and  all  their 
hopes,  as  they  so  seldom  were  enabled  to  do. 

"You  had  better  call  on  that  man,  Q.,  as  you  come  away 

424 


MR.  AND  MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

from  the  palace,"  said  Mrs.  Quiverful,  pointing  to  an  angry 
call  for  money  from  the  Barchester  draper,  which  the  post- 
man had  left  at  the  vicarage  that  morning.  Cormorant  that 
he  vi^as,  unjust,  hungry  cormorant !  When  rumour  first  got 
abroad  that  the  Quiverfuls  were  to  go  to  the  hospital,  this 
fellow  with  fawning  eagerness  had  pressed  his  goods  upon 
the  wants  of  the  poor  clergyman.  He  had  done  so,  feeling 
that  he  should  be  paid  from  the  hospital  funds,  and  flattering 
himself  that  a  man  with  fourteen  children,  and  money  where- 
withal to  clothe  them,  could  not  but  be  an  excellent  customer. 
As  soon  as  the  second  rumour  reached  him,  he  applied  for  his 
money  angrily. 

And  "the  fourteen" — or  such  of  them  as  were  old  enough 
to  hope  and  discuss  their  hopes,  talked  over  their  golden  fu- 
ture. The  tall-grown  girls  whispered  to  each  other  of  pos- 
sible Barchester  parties,  of  possible  allowances  for  dress,  of 
a  possible  piano — the  one  they  had  in  the  vicarage  was  so 
weather-beaten  with  the  storms  of  years  and  children  as  to 
be  no  longer  worthy  of  the  name — of  the  pretty  garden,  and 
the  pretty  house.  'Twas  of  such  things  it  most  behoved 
them  to  whisper. 

And  the  younger  fry,  they  did  not  content  themselves  with 
whispers,  but  shouted  to  each  other  of  their  new  play-ground 
beneath  our  dear  ex-warden's  well-loved  elms,  of  their  fu- 
ture own  gardens,  of  marbles  to  be  procured  in  the  wished- 
for  city,  and  of  the  rumour  which  had  reached  them  of  a 
Barchester  school. 

'Twas  in  vain  that  their  cautious  mother  tried  to  instil  into 
their  breasts  the  very  feeling  she  had  striven  to  banish  from 
that  of  their  father;  'twas  in  vain  that  she  repeated  to  the 
girls  that  "there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip;" 
'twas  in  vain  she  attempted  to  make  the  children  believe  that 
they  were  to  live  at  Puddingdale  all  their  lives.  Hopes 
mounted  high  and  would  not  have  themselves  quelled.  The 
neighbouring  farmers  heard  the  news,  and  came  in  to  con- 
gratulate them.  'Twas  Mrs.  Quiverful  herself  who  had 
kindled  the  fire,  and  in  the  first  outbreak  of  her  renewed  ex- 
pectations she  did  it  so  thoroughly,  that  it  was  quite  past  her 
power  to  put  it  out  again. 

Poor  matron !  good  honest  matron !  doing  thy  duty  in  the 

425 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

state  to  which  thou  hast  been  called,  heartily  if  not  content- 
edly ;  let  the  fire  burn  on ; — on  this  occasion  the  flames  will 
not  scorch;  they  shall  warm  thee  and  thine.  'Tis  ordained 
that  that  husband  of  thine,  that  Q.  of  thy  bosom,  shall  reign 
supreme  for  years  to  come  over  the  bedesmen  of  Hiram's 
hospital. 

And  the  last  in  all  Barchestet  to  mar  their  hopes,  had  he 
heard  and  seen  all  that  passed  at  Puddingdale  that  day, 
would  have  been  Mr.  Harding.  What  wants  had  he  to  set 
in  opposition  to  those  of  such  a  regiment  of  young  ravens? 
There  are  fourteen  of  them  living!  with  him  at  any  rate,  let 
us  say,  that  that  argument  would  have  been  sufficient  for  the 
appointment  of  Mr.  Quiverful. 

In  the  morning,  Q.  and  his  wife  kept  their  appointments 
v;ith  that  punctuality  which  bespeaks  an  expectant  mind. 
The  friendly  farmer's  gig  was  borrowed,  and  in  that  they 
went,  discussing  many  things  by  the  way.  They  had  in- 
structed the  household  to  expect  them  back  by  one,  and 
injunctions  were  given  to  the  eldest  pledge  to  have  ready  by 
that  accustomed  hour  the  remainder  of  the  huge  stew  which 
the  provident  mother  had  prepared  on  the  previous  day.  The 
hands  of  the  kitchen  clock  came  round  to  two,  three,  four, 
before  the  farmer's  gig-wheels  were  again  heard  at  the  vic- 
arage gate.  With  what  palpitating  hearts  were  the  return- 
ing wanderers  greeted ! 

"I  suppose,  children,  you  all  thought  we  were  never  com- 
ing back  any  more  ?"  said  the  mother,  as  she  slowly  let  down 
her  solid  foot  till  it  rested  on  the  step  of  the  gig.  "Well, 
such  a  day  as  we've  had !"  and  then  leaning  heavily  on  a 
big  boy's  shoulder,  she  stepped  once  more  on  terra 
firma. 

There  was  no  need  for  more  than  the  tone  of  her  voice  to 
tell  them  that  all  was  right.  The  Irish  stew  might  burn  it- 
self to  cinders  now. 

Then  there  was  such  kissing  and  hugging,  such  crying  and 
laughing.  Mr.  Quiverful  could  not  sit  still  at  all,  but  kept 
walking  from  room  to  room,  then  out  into  the  garden,  then 
down  the  avenue  into  the  road,  and  then  back  again  to  his 
wife.     She,  however,  lost  no  time  so  idly. 

"We  must  go  to  work  at  once,  girls;  and  that  in  earnest. 

426 


MR.  AND   MRS.   QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

Mrs.  Proudie  expects  us  to  be  in  the  hospital  house  on  the 
15th  of  October." 

Had  Mrs.  Proudie  expressed  a  wish  that  they  should  all 
be  there  on  the  next  morning,  the  girls  would  have  had  noth- 
ing to  say  against  it. 

"And  when  will  the  pay  begin  ?"  asked  the  eldest  boy. 

"To-day,  my  dear,"  said  the  gratified  mother. 

"Oh,— that  is  jolly,"  said  the  boy. 

"Mrs.  Proudie  insisted  on  our  going  down  to  the  house," 
continued  the  mother;  "and  when  there  I  thought  I  might 
save  a  journey  by  measuring  some  of  the  rooms  and  win- 
dows ;  so  I  got  a  knot  of  tape  from  Bobbins.  Bobbins  is  as 
civil  as  you  please,  now." 

"I  wouldn't  thank  him,"  said  Letty  the  younger. 

"Oh,  it's  the  way  of  the  world,  my  dear.  They  all  do  just 
the  same.  You  might  just  as  well  be  angry  with  the  turkey 
cock  for  gobbling  at  you.  It's  the  bird's  nature."  And  as 
she  enunciated  to  her  bairns  the  upshot  of  her  practical  ex- 
perience, she  pulled  from  her  pocket  the  portions  of  tape 
which  showed  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  various  rooms 
at  the  hospital  house. 

And  so  we  will  leave  her  happy  in  her  toils. 

The  Quiverfuls  had  hardly  left  the  palace,  and  Mrs. 
Proudie  was  still  holding  forth  on  the  matter  to  her  husband, 
when  another  visitor  was  announced  in  the  person  of  Dr. 
Gwynne.  The  master  of  Lazarus  had  asked  for  the  bishop, 
and  not  for  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  therefore,  when  he  was  shown 
into  the  study  he  was  surprised  rather  than  rejoiced  to  find 
the  lady  there. 

But  we  must  go  back  a  little,  and  it  shall  be  but  a  little,  for 
a  difficulty  begins  to  make  itself  manifest  in  the  necessity  of 
disposing  of  all  our  friends  in  the  small  remainder  of  this 
one  volume.  Oh.  that  Mr.  Longman  would  allow  me  a 
fourth!  It  should  transcend  the  other  three  as  the  seventh 
heaven  transcends  all  the  lower  stages  of  celestial  bliss. 

Going  home  in  the  carriasre  that  evening  from  Ullathorne, 
Dr.  Gwynne  had  not  without  difficulty  brought  round  his 
friend  the  archdeacon  to  a  line  of  tactics  much  less  bellicose 
than  that  which  his  own  taste  would  have  preferred.  "It 
will  be  unseemly  in  us  to  show  ourselves  in  a  bad  humour: 

427 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  moreover  we  have  no  power  in  this  matter,  and  it  will 
therefore  be  bad  policy  to  act  as  though  we  had."  'Twas 
thus  the  master  of  Lazarus  argued.  "If,"  he  continued,  "the 
bishop  be  determined  to  appoint  another  to  the  hospital, 
threats  will  not  prevent  him,  and  threats  should  not  be  light- 
ly used  by  an  archdeacon  to  his  bishop.  If  he  will  place  a 
stranger  in  the  hospital,  we  can  only  leave  him  to  the  indig- 
nation of  others.  It  is  probable  that  such  a  step  may  not 
eventually  injure  your  father-in-law.  I  will  see  the  bishop, 
if  you  will  allow  me, — alone."  At  this  the  archdeacon 
winced  visibly;  "yes,  alone;  for  so  I  shall  be  calmer:  and 
then  I  shall  at  any  rate  learn  what  he  does  mean  to  do  in  the 
matter." 

The  archdeacon  puffed  and  blew,  put  up  the  carriage  win- 
dow and  then  put  it  down  again,  argued  the  matter  up  to  his 
own  gate,  and  at  last  gave  way.  Everybody  was  against 
him,  his  own  wife,  Mr.  Harding,  and  Dr.  Gwynne. 

"Pray  keep  him  out  of  hot  water,  Dr.  Gwynne,"  Mrs. 
Grantly  had  said  to  her  guest.  "My  dearest  madam,  I'll  do 
my  best,"  the  courteous  master  had  replied.  'Twas  thus  he 
did  it ;  and  earned  for  himself  the  gratitude  of  Mrs.  Grantly. 
And  now  we  may  return  to  the  bishop's  study. 
Dr.  Gwynne  had  certainly  not  foreseen  the  difficulty  which 
here  presented  itself.  He, — together  with  all  the  clerical 
world  of  England, — had  heard  it  rumoured  about  that  Mrs. 
Proudie  did  not  confine  herself  to  her  wardrobes,  still-rooms, 
and  laundries;  but  yet  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  if 
he  called  on  a  bishop  at  one  o'clock  in  the  day,  he  could  by 
any  possibility  find  him  closeted  with  his  wife;  or  that  if  he 
did  so,  the  wife  would  remain  longer  than  necessary  to  make 
her  curtsey.  It  appeared,  however,  as  though  in  the  present 
case  Mrs.  Proudie  had  no  idea  of  retreating. 

The  bishop  had  been  very  much  pleased  with  Dr.  Gwynne 
on  the  preceding  day,  and  of  course  thought  that  Dr.  Gwynne 
had  been  as  much  pleased  with  him.  He  attributed  the  visit 
solely  to  compliment,  and  thought  it  an  extremely  gracious 
and  proper  thing  for  the  master  of  Lazarus  to  drive  over 
from  Plumstead  specially  to  call  at  the  palace  so  soon  after 
his  arrival  in  the  country.  The  fact  that  they  were  not  on 
the  same  side  either  in  politics  or  doctrines  made  the  compli- 

428 


MR.  AND  MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

ment  the  greater.  The  bishop,  therefore,  was  all  smiles. 
And  Mrs.  Proudie,  who  liked  people  with  good  handles  to 
their  names,  was  also  very  well  disposed  to  welcome  the 
master  of  Lazarus. 

"We  had  a  charming  party  at  Ullathorne,  Master,  had  we 
not?"  said  she.  "I  hope  Mrs.  Grantly  got  home  without 
fatigue." 

Dr.  Gwynne  said  that  they  had  all  been  a  little  tired,  but 
were  none  the  worse  this  morning. 

"An  excellent  person,  Miss  Thorne,"  suggested  the  bishop. 

"And  an  exemplary  Christian,  I  am  told,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

Dr.  Gwynne  declared  that  he  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 

"I  have  not  seen  her  Sabbath-day  schools  yet,"  continued 
the  lady,  "but  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so  before  long." 

Dr.  Gwynne  merely  bowed  at  this  intimation.  He  had 
heard  something  of  Mrs.  Proudie  and  her  Sunday  schools, 
both  from  Dr.  Grantly  and  Mr.  Harding. 

"By  the  bye,  Master,"  continued  the  lady,  "I  wonder 
whether  Mrs.  Grantly  would  like  me  to  drive  over  and  in- 
spect her  Sabbath-day  school.  I  hear  that  it  is  most  excel- 
lently kept." 

Dr.  Gwynne  really  could  not  say.  He  had  no  doubt  Mrs. 
Grantly  would  be  most  happy  to  see  Mrs.  Proudie  any  day 
Mrs.  Proudie  would  do  her  the  honour  of  calling :  that  was, 
of  course,  if  Mrs.  Grantly  should  happen  to  be  at  home. 

A  slight  cloud  darkened  the  lady's  brow.  She  saw  that 
her  ofifer  was  not  taken  in  good  part.  This  generation  of  un- 
regenerated  vipers  was  still  perverse,  stiffnecked,  and  hard- 
ened in  their  iniquity.  "The  archdeacon,  I  know,"  said  she, 
"sets  his  face  against  these  institutions." 

At  this  Dr.  Gwynne  laughed  slightly.  It  was  but  a  smile. 
Had  he  given  his  cap  for  it  he  could  not  have  helped  it. 

Mrs.  Proudie  frowned  again.  "  'Sufifer  little  children,  and 
forbid  them  not,' "  said  she.  "Are  we  not  to  remember  that, 
Dr.  Gwynne?  'Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these 
little  ones.'  Are  we  not  to  remember  that,  Dr.  Gwynne?" 
And  at  each  of  these  questions  she  raised  at  him  her  men- 
acing forefinger. 

"Certainly,  madam,  certainly,"  said  the  master,  "and  so 

429 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

does  the  archdeacon,  I  am  sure,  on  week  days  as  well  as  on 
Sundays." 

"On  week  days  you  can't  take  heed  not  to  despise  them," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "because  then  they  are  out  in  the  fields. 
On  week  days  they  belong  to  their  parents,  but  on  Sundays 
they  ought  to  belong  to  the  clergyman."  And  the  finger  was 
again  raised. 

The  master  began  to  understand  and  to  share  the  intense 
disgust  which  the  archdeacon  always  expressed  when  Mrs. 
Proudie's  name  was  mentioned.  What  was  he  to  do  with 
such  a  woman  as  this?  To  take  his  hat  and  go  would  have 
been  his  natural  resource ;  but  then  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
foiled  in  his  object. 

"My  lord,"  said  he,  'T  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question  on 
business,  if  you  could  spare  me  one  moment's  leisure.  I 
know  I  must  apologise  for  so  disturbing  you ;  but  in  truth 
I  will  not  detain  you  five  minutes." 

"Certainly,  Master,  certainly,"  said  the  bishop ;  "my  time  is 
quite  yours, — pray  make  no  apology,  pray  make  no  apology." 

"You  have  a  great  deal  to  do  just  at  the  present  moment, 
bishop.  Do  not  forget  how  extremely  busy  you  are  at  pres- 
ent," said  Mrs.  Proudie,  whose  spirit  was  now  up ;  for  she 
was  angry  with  her  visitor. 

"I  will  not  delay  his  lordship  much  above  a  minute,"  said 
the  master  of  Lazarus,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  expecting 
that  Mrs.  Proudie  would  now  go,  or  else  that  the  bishop 
would  lead  the  way  into  another  room. 

But  neither  event  seemed  likely  to  occur,  and  Dr.  Gwynne 
stood  for  a  moment  silent  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Perhaps  it's  about  Hiram's  hospital?"  suggested  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

Dr.  Gwynne,  lost  in  astonishment,  and  not  knowing  what 
else  on  earth  to  do,  confessed  that  his  business  with  the 
bishop  was  connected  with  Hiram's  hospital. 

"His  lordship  has  finally  conferred  the  appointment  on  Mr. 
Quiverful  this  morning,"  said  the  lady. 

Dr.  Gwynne  made  a  simple  reference  to  the  bishop,  and 
finding  that  the  lady's  statement  was  formally  confirmed,  he 
took  his  leave.  "That  comes  of  the  reform  bill,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  walked  down  the  bishop's  avenue.     "Well,  at 

430 


MR.  AND  MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

any  rate  the  Greek  play  bishops  were  not  so  bad  as  that." 
It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Slope,  as  he  started  for  Ulla- 
thorne,  received  a  despatch  from  his  friend,  Mr.  Towers, 
which  had  the  effect  of  putting  him  in  that  high  good-humour 
which  subsequent  events  somewhat  untowardly  damped.  It 
ran  as  follows.     Its  shortness  will  be  its  sufficient  apology. 

"My  dear  Sir, — I  wish  you  every  success.  I  don't  know 
that  I  can  help  you,  but  if  I  can,  I  will. 

"Yours  ever, 

■"30/9/185-- 

There  was  more  in  this  than  in  all  Sir  Nicholas  Fitzwhig- 
gin's  flummery ;  more  than  in  all  the  bishop's  promises,  even 
had  they  been  ever  so  sincere ;  more  than  in  any  archbishop's 
good  word,  even  had  it  been  possible  to  obtain  it.  Tom 
Towers  would  do  for  him  what  he  could. 

Mr.  Slope  had  from  his  youth  upwards  been  a  firm  be- 
liever in  the  public  press.  He  had  dabbled  in  it  himself  ever 
since  he  had  taken  his  degree,  and  regarded  it  as  the  great 
arranger  and  distributor  of  all  future  British  terrestrial  af- 
fairs whatever.  He  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  age,  an  age 
which  sooner  or  later  comes  to  most  of  us,  which  dissipates 
the  golden  dreams  of  youth.  He  delighted  in  the  idea  of 
wresting  power  from  the  hands  of  his  country's  magnates, 
and  placing  it  in  a  custody  which  was  at  any  rate  nearer  to 
his  own  reach.  Sixty  thousand  broad  sheets  dispersing 
themselves  daily  among  his  reading  fellow-citizens,  formed 
'in  his  eyes  a  better  depot  for  supremacy  than  a  throne  at 
Windsor,  a  cabinet  in  Downing  Street,  or  even  an  assembly 
at  Westminster.  And  on  this  subject  we  must  not  quarrel 
with  Mr.  Slope,  for  the  feeling  is  too  general  to  be  met  with 
disrespect. 

Tom  Towers  was  as  good,  if  not  better  than  his  promise. 
On  the  following  morning  the  Jupiter,  spouting  forth  public 
opinion  with  sixty  thousand  loud  clarions,  did  proclaim  to  the 
world  that  Mr.  Slope  was  the  fitting  man  for  the  vacant 
post.  It  was  pleasant  for  Mr.  Slope  to  read  the  following 
lines  in  the  Barchester  news-room,  which  he  did  within  thirty 

431 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

minutes  after  the  morning  train  from  London  had  reached 
the  city. 

"It  is  just  now  five  years  since  we  called  the  attention  of 
our  readers  to  the  quiet  city  of  Barchester.  From  that  day 
to  this,  we  have  in  no  way  meddled  with  the  affairs  of  that 
happy  ecclesiastical  community.  Since  then,  an  old  bishop 
has  died  there,  and  a  young  bishop  has  been  installed;  but 
we  believe  we  did  not  do  more  than  give  some  customary 
record  of  the  interesting  event.  Nor  are  we  now  about  to 
meddle  very  deeply  in  the  affairs  of  the  diocese.  If  any  of 
the  chapter  feel  a  qualm  of  conscience  on  reading  thus  far, 
let  it  be  quieted.  Above  all,  let  the  mind  of  the  new  bishop 
be  at  rest.  We  are  now  not  armed  for  war,  but  approach 
the  reverend  towers  of  the  old  cathedral  with  an  olive-branch 
in  our  hands. 

"It  will  be  remembered  that  at  the  time  alluded  to,  now  five 
years  past,  we  had  occasion  to  remark  on  the  state  of  a 
charity  in  Barchester  called  Hiram's  hospital.  We  thought 
that  it  was  maladministered,  and  that  the  very  estimable  and 
reverend  gentleman  who  held  the  office  of  warden  was  some- 
what too  highly  paid  for  duties  which  were  somewhat  too 
easily  performed.  This  gentleman — and  we  say  it  in  all  sin- 
cerity and  with  no  touch  of  sarcasm — had  never  looked  on 
the  matter  in  this  light  before.  We  do  not  wish  to  take 
praise  to  ourselves  whether  praise  be  due  to  us  or  not.  But 
the  consequence  of  our  remark  was,  that  the  warden  did  look 
into  the  matter,  and  finding  on  so  doing  that  he  himself  could 
come  to  no  other  opinion  than  that  expressed  by  us,  he  very 
creditably  threw  up  the  appointment.  The  then  bishop  as 
creditably  declined  to  fill  the  vacancy  till  the  affair  was  put 
on  a  better  footing.  Parliament  then  took  it  up ;  and  we 
have  now  the  satisfaction  of  informing  our  readers  that  Hi- 
ram's hospital  will  be  immediately  re-opened  under  new  aus- 
pices. Heretofore,  provision  was  made  for  the  maintenance 
of  twelve  old  men.  This  will  now  be  extended  to  the  fair 
sex,  and  twelve  elderly  women,  if  any  such  can  be  found  in 
Barchester,  will  be  added  to  the  establishment.  There  will 
be  a  matron ;  there  will,  it  is  hoped,  be  schools  attached  for 
the  poorest  of  the  children  of  the  poor,  and  there  will  be  a 
steward.    The  warden,  for  there  will  still  be  a  warden,  will 

432 


MR.  AND   MRS.   QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

receive  an  income  more  in  keeping-  with  the  extent  of  the 
charity  than  that  heretofore  paid.  The  stipend  we  believe 
will  be  450/.  We  may  add  that  the  excellent  house  which 
the  former  warden  inhabited  will  still  be  attached  to  the 
situation. 

"Barchester  hospital  cannot  perhaps  boast  a  world-wide 
reputation ;  but  as  we  adverted  to  its  state  of  decadence,  we 
think  it  right  also  to  advert  to  its  renaissance.  May  it  go  on 
and  prosper.  Whether  the  salutary  reform  which  has  been 
introduced  within  its  walls  has  been  carried  as  far  as  could 
have  been  desired,  may  be  doubtful.  The  important  question 
of  the  school  appears  to  be  somewhat  left  to  the  discretion 
of  the  new  warden.  This  might  have  been  made  the  most 
important  part  of  the  establishment,  and  the  new  warden, 
whom  we  trust  we  shall  not  offend  by  the  freedom  of  our 
remarks,  might  have  been  selected  with  some  view  to  his  fit- 
ness as  schoolmaster.  But  we  will  not  now  look  a  gift  horse 
in  the  mouth.  May  the  hospital  go  on  and  prosper !  The 
situation  of  warden  has  of  course  been  offered  to  the  gentle- 
man who  so  honourably  vacated  it  five  years  since ;  but  we 
are  given  to  understand  that  he  has  declined  it.  Whether 
the  ladies  who  have  been  introduced,  be  in  his  estimation  too 
much  for  his  powers  of  control,  whether  it  be  that  the  dimin- 
ished income  does  not  offer  to  him  sufficient  temptation  to  re- 
sume his  old  place,  or  that  he  has  in  the  meantime  assumed 
other  clerical  duties,  we  do  not  know.  We  are,  however, 
informed  that  he  has  refused  the  offer,  and  that  the  situation 
has  been  accepted  by  Mr.  Quiverful,  the  vicar  of  Pudding- 
dale. 

"So  much  we  think  is  due  to  Hiram  redivivus.  But  while 
we  are  on  the  subject  of  Barchester,  we  will  venture  with 
all  respectful  humility  to  express  our  opinion  on  another 
matter,  connected  with  the  ecclesiastical  polity  of  that  ancient 
city.  Dr.  Trefoil,  the  dean,  died  yesterday.  A  short  record 
of  his  death,  giving  his  age,  and  the  various  pieces  of  prefer- 
ment which  he  has  at  different  times  held,  will  be  found  in 
another  column  of  this  paper.  The  only  fault  we  knew  in 
him  was  his  age,  and  as  that  is  a  crime  of  which  we  all  hope 
to  be  guilty,  we  will  not  bear  heavily  on  it.  May  he  rest  in 
peace !     But  though  the  great  age  of  an  expiring  dean  can- 

'■^  433 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

not  be  made  matter  of  reproach,  we  are  not  inclined  to  look 
on  such  a  fault  as  at  all  pardonable  in  a  dean  just  brought  to 
the  birth.  We  do  hope  that  the  days  of  sexagenarian  ap- 
pointments are  past.  If  we  want  deans,  we  must  want  them 
for  some  purpose.  That  purpose  will  necessarily  be  better 
fulfilled  by  a  man  of  forty  than  by  a  man  of  sixty.  If  we 
are  to  pay  deans  at  all,  we  are  to  pay  them  for  some  sort  of 
work.  That  work,  be  it  what  it  may,  will  be  best  performed 
by  a  workman  in  the  prime  of  life.  Dr.  Trefoil,  we  see, 
was  eighty  when  he  died.  As  we  have  as  yet  completed  no 
plan  for  pensioning  superannuated  clergymen,  we  do  not 
wish  to  get  rid  of  any  existing  deans  of  that  age.  But  we 
prefer  having  as  few  such  as  possible.     If  a  man  of  seventy 

be  now  appointed,  we  beg  to  point  out  to  Lord  that  he 

will  be  past  all  use  in  a  year  or  two,  if  indeed  he  be  not  so 
at  the  present  moment.  His  lordship  will  allow  us  to  remind 
him  that  all  men  are  not  evergreens  like  himself. 

"We  hear  that  Mr.  Slope's  name  has  been  mentioned  for 
this  preferment.  Mr.  Slope  is  at  present  chaplain  to  the 
bishop.  A  better  man  could  hardly  be  selected.  He  is  a 
man  of  talent,  young,  active,  and  conversant  with  the  affairs 
of  the  cathedral ;  he  is  moreover,  we  conscientiously  believe, 
a  truly  pious  clergyman.  We  know  that  his  services  in  the 
city  of  Barchester  have  been  highly  appreciated.  He  is  an 
eloquent  preacher  and  a  ripe  scholar.  Such  a  selection  as 
this  would  go  far  to  raise  the  confidence  of  the  public  in  the 
present  administration  of  church  patronage,  and  would  teach 
men  to  believe  that  from  henceforth  the  establishment  of  our 
church  will  not  afford  easy  couches  to  worn-out  clerical 
voluptuaries." 

Standing  at  a  reading-desk  in  the  Barchester  news-room, 
Mr.  Slope  digested  this  article  with  considerable  satisfaction. 
What  was  therein  said  as  to  the  hospital  was  now  compara- 
tively matter  of  indifference  to  him.  He  was  certainly  glad 
that  he  had  not  succeeded  in  restoring  to  the  place  the  father 
of  that  virago  who  had  so  audaciously  outraged  all  decency 
in  his  person ;  and  was  so  far  satisfied.  But  Mrs.  Proudie's 
nominee  was  appointed,  and  he  was  so  far  dissatisfied.  His 
mind,  however,  was  now  soaring  above  Mrs.  Bold  or  Mrs. 
Proudie.     He  was  sufficiently  conversant  with  the  tactics  of 

434 


MR.  AND   MRS.  QUIVERFUL  ARE  MADE  HAPPY. 

the  Jupiter  to  know  that  the  pith  of  the  article  would  lie  in 
the  last  paragraph.  The  place  of  honour  was  given  to  him, 
and  it  was  indeed  as  honourable  as  even  he  could  have 
wished.  He  was  very  grateful  to  his  friend  Mr.  Towers, 
and  with  full  heart  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  he  might 
entertain  him  in  princely  style  at  his  own  full-spread  board  in 
the  deanery  dining-room. 

It  had  been  well  for  Mr.  Slope  that  Dr.  Trefoil  had  died  in 
the  autumn.  Those  caterers  for  our  morning  repast,  the 
staff  of  the  Jupiter,  had  been  sorely  put  to  it  for  the  last 
month  to  find  a  sufficiency  of  proper  pabulum.  Just  then 
there  was  no  talk  of  a  new  American  president.  No  won- 
derful tragedies  had  occurred  on  railway  trains  in  Georgia, 
or  elsewhere.  There  was  a  dearth  of  broken  banks,  and  a 
dead  dean  with  the  necessity  for  a  live  one  was  a  godsend. 
Had  Dr.  Trefoil  died  in  June,  Mr.  Towers  would  probably 
not  have  known  so  much  about  the  piety  of  Mr.  Slope. 

And  here  we  will  leave  Mr.  Slope  for  a  while  in  his  tri- 
umph ;  explaining,  however,  that  his  feelings  were  not  alto- 
gether of  a  triumphant  nature.  His  rejection  by  the  widow, 
or  rather  the  method  of  his  rejection,  galled  him  terribly. 
For  days  to  come  he  positively  felt  the  sting  upon  his  cheek, 
whenever  he  thought  of  what  had  been  done  to  him.  He 
could  not  refrain  from  calling  her  by  harsh  names,  speaking 
to  himself  as  he  walked  through  the  streets  of  Barchester. 
When  he  said  his  prayers,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  for- 
give her.  When  he  strove  to  do  so,  his  mind  recoiled  from 
the  attempt,  and  in  lieu  of  forgiving  ran  off  in  a  double  spirit 
of  vindictiveness,  dwelling  on  the  extent  of  the  injury  he  had 
received.  And  so  his  prayers  dropped  senseless  from  his 
lips. 

And  then  the  signora ;  what  would  he  not  have  given  to  be 
able  to  hate  her  also?  As  it  was,  he  worshipped  the  very 
sofa  on  which  she  was  ever  lying.  And  thus  it  was  not  all 
rose  colour  with  Mr.  Slope,  although  his  hopes  ran  high. 


435 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

MRS.    BOLD    AT    HOME. 

POOR  Mrs.  Bold,  when  she  got  home  from  Ullathorne  on 
the  evening  of  Miss  Thome's  party,  was  very  unhappy, 
and  m.oreover,  very  tired.  Nothing  fatigues  the  body  so 
much  as  weariness  of  spirit,  and  Eleanor's  spirit  was  indeed 
weary. 

Dr.  Stanhope  had  civilly  but  not  very  cordially  asked  her 
in  to  tea,  and  her  manner  of  refusal  convinced  the  worthy 
doctor  that  he  need  not  repeat  the  invitation.  He  had  not 
exactly  made  himself  a  party  to  the  intrigue  which  was  to 
convert  the  late  Mr.  Bold's  patrimony  into  an  income  for 
his  hopeful  son,  but  he  had  been  well  aware  what  was  going 
on.  And  he  was  well  aware  also,  when  he  perceived  that 
Bertie  declined  accompanying  them  home  in  the  carriage, 
that  the  affair  had  gone  off. 

Eleanor  was  very  much  afraid  that  Charlotte  would  have 
darted  out  upon  her,  as  the  prebendary  got  out  at  his  own 
door,  but  Bertie  had  thoughtfully  saved  her  from  this,  by 
causing  the  carriage  to  go  round  by  her  own  house.  This 
also  Dr.  Stanhope  understood,  and  allowed  to  pass  by  with- 
out remark. 

When  she  got  home,  she  found  Mary  Bold  in  the  drawing- 
room  with  the  child  in  her  lap.  She  rushed  forward,  and, 
throwing  herself  on  her  knees,  kissed  the  little  fellow  till  she 
almost  frightened  him. 

"Oh,  Mary,  I  am  so  glad  you  did  not  go.  It  was  an 
odious  party." 

Now  the  question  of  Mary's  going  had  been  one  greatly 
mooted  between  them.  Mrs.  Bold,  when  invited,  had  been 
the  guest  of  the  Grantlys,  and  Miss  Thorne,  who  had  chiefly 
known  Eleanor  at  the  hospital  or  at  Plumstead  rectory,  had 
forgotten  all  about  Mary  Bold.  Her  sister-in-law  had  im- 
plored her  to  go  under  her  wing,  and  had  offered  to  write 
to  Aliss  Thorne,  or  to  call  on  her.  But  Miss  Bold  had  de- 
clined. In  fact,  Mr.  Bold  had  not  been  .very  popular  with 
such  people  as  the  Thornes,  and  his  sister  would  not   go 

436 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    HOME. 

among   them    unless    she    were    specially    asked    to    do    so 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mary,  cheerfully,  "I  have  the  less  to 
regret." 

"You  have  nothing  to  regret ;  but  oh !  Mary,  I  have — so 
much — so  much;" — and  then  she  began  kissing  her  boy, 
whom  her  caresses  had  roused  from  his  slumbers.  When 
she  raised  her  head,  Mary  saw  that  the  tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks. 

"Good  heavens,  Eleanor,  what  is  the  matter?  what  has 
happened  to  you? — Eleanor — dearest  Eleanor — what  is  the 
matter?"  and  Mary  got  up  with  the  boy  still  in  her 
arms. 

"Give  him  to  me — give  him  to  me,"  said  the  young  mother. 
"Give  him  to  me,  Mary,"  and  she  almost  tore  the  child  out 
of  her  sister's  arms.  The  poor  little  fellow  murmured  some- 
what at  the  disturbance,  but  nevertheless  nestled  himself  close 
into  his  mother's  bosom. 

"Here,  Mary,  take  the  cloak  from  me.  My  own,  own  dar- 
ling, darling,  darling  jewel.  You  are  not  false  to  me.  Every- 
body else  is  false ;  everybody  else  is  cruel.  Mamma  will  care 
for  nobody,  nobody,  nobody,  but  her  own,  own,  own  little 
man ;"  and  she  again  kissed  and  pressed  the  baby,  and  cried 
till  the  tears  ran  down  over  the  child's  face. 

"Who  has  been  cruel  to  you,  Eleanor?"  said  Mary.  "I 
hope  I  have  not." 

Now,  in  this  matter,  Eleanor  had  great  cause  for  mental 
uneasiness.  She  could  not  certainly  accuse  her  loving  sister- 
tn-law  of  cruelty;  but  she  had  to  do  that  which  was  more 
galling;  she  had  to  accuse  herself  of  imprudence  against 
which  her  sister-in-law  had  warned  her.  Miss  Bold  had 
never  encouraged  Eleanor's  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Slope,  and 
she  had  positively  discouraged  the  friendship  of  the  Stan- 
hopes as  far  as  her  usual  gentle  mode  of  speaking  had  per- 
mitted. Eleanor  had  only  laughed  at  her,  however,  when 
she  said  that  she  disapproved  of  married  women  who  lived 
apart  from  their  husbands,  and  suggested  that  Charlotte 
Stanhope  never  went  to  church.  Now,  however,  Eleanor 
must  either  hold  her  tongue,  which  was  quite  impossible,  or 
confess  herself  to  have  been  utterly  wrong,  which  was  nearly 
equally  so.     So  she  staved  off  the  evil  day  by  more  tears,  and 

437 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

consoled  herself  by  inducing  little  Johnny  to  rouse  himself 
sufficiently  to  return  her  caresses. 

"He  is  a  darling — as  true  as  gold.  What  would  mamma 
do  without  him?  Mamma  would  lie  down  and  die  if  she 
had  not  her  own  Johnny  Bold  to  give  her  comfort."  This 
and  much  more  she  said  of  the  same  kind,  and  for  a  time 
made  no  other  answer  to  Mary's  inquiries. 

This  kind  of  consolation  from  the  world's  deceit  is  very 
common. 

Mothers  obtain  it  from  their  children,  and  men  from  their 
dogs.  Some  men  even  do  so  from  their  walking-sticks,  which 
is  just  as  rational.  How  is  it  that  we  can  take  joy  to  our- 
selves in  that  we  are  not  deceived  by  those  who  have  not 
attained  the  art  to  deceive  us  ?  In  a  true  man,  if  such  can  be 
found,  or  a  true  woman,  much  consolation  may  indeed  be 
taken. 

In  the  caresses  of  her  child,  however,  Eleanor  did  receive 
consolation ;  and  may  ill  befall  the  man  who  would  begrudge 
it  to  her.  The  evil  day,  however,  was  only  postponed.  She 
had  to  tell  her  disagreeable  tale  to  Mary,  and  she  had  also 
to  tell  it  to  her  father.  Must  it  not,  indeed,  be  told  to  the 
whole  circle  of  her  acquaintance  before  she  could  be  made  to 
stand  all  right  with  them  ?  At  the  present  moment  there 
was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  turn  for  comfort.  She  hated 
Mr.  Slope ;  that  was  a  matter  of  course,  in  that  feeling  she 
revelled.  She  hated  and  despised  the  Stanhopes;  but  that 
feeling  distressed  her  greatly.  She  had,  as  it  were,  sepa- 
rated herself  from  her  old  friends  to  throw  herself  into  the 
arms  of  this  family ;  and  then  how  had  they  intended  to  use 
her?  She  could  hardly  reconcile  herself  to  her  own  father, 
who  had  believed  ill  of  her.  Mary  Bold  had  turned  Mentor. 
That  she  could  have  forgiven  had  the  Mentor  turned  out  to 
be  in  the  wrong ;  but  Mentors  in  the  right  are  not  to  be  par- 
doned. She  could  not  but  hate  the  archdeacon ;  and  now  she 
hated  him  worse  than  ever,  for  she  must  in  some  sort  humble 
herself  before  him.  She  hated  her  sister,  for  she  was  part 
and  parcel  of  the  archdeacon.  And  she  would  have  hated 
Mr.  Arabin  if  she  could.  He  had  pretended  to  regard  her, 
and  yet  before  her  face  he  had  hung  over  that  Italian  woman 
as  though  there  had  been  no  beauty  in  the  world  but  hers — 

438 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    HOME. 

no  other  woman  worth  a  moment's  attention.  And  Mr.  Ara- 
bin  would  have  to  learn  all  this  about  Mr.  Slope !  She  told 
herself  that  she  hated  him,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  lying 
to  herself  as  she  did  so.  She  had  no  consolation  but  her 
baby,  and  of  that  she  made  the  most.  Mary,  though  she 
could  not  surmise  what  it  was  that  had  so  violently  affected 
her  sister-in-law,  saw  at  once  that  her  grief  was  too  great  to 
be  kept  under  control,  and  waited  patiently  till  the  child 
should  be  in  his  cradle. 

"You'll  have  some  tea,  Eleanor,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  said  she ;  though  in  fact  she  must  have 
been  very  hungry,  for  she  had  eaten  nothing  at  Ullathorne. 

Mary  quietly  made  the  tea,  and  buttered  the  bread,  laid 
aside  the  cloak,  and  made  things  look  comfortable. 

"He's  fast  asleep,"  said  she,  "you're  very  tired ;  let  me  take 
him  up  to  bed." 

But  Eleanor  would  not  let  her  sister  touch  him.  She 
looked  wistfully  at  her  baby's  eyes,  saw  that  they  were  lost 
in  the  deepest  slumber,  and  then  made  a  sort  of  couch  for 
him  on  the  sofa.  She  was  determined  that  nothing  should 
prevail  upon  her  to  let  him  out  of  her  sight  that  night. 

"Come,  Nelly,"  said  Mary,  "don't  be  cross  with  me.  I  at 
least  have  done  nothing  to  offend  you." 

"I  an't  cross,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Are  you  angry  then?  Surely  you  can't  be  angry  with 
me. 

"No,  I  an't  angry ;  at  least  not  with  you." 

"If  you  are  not,  drink  the  tea  I  have  made  for  you.  I  am 
sure  you  must  want  it." 

Eleanor  did  drink  it,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded. 
She  ate  and  drank,  and  as  the  inner  woman  was  recruited 
she  felt  a  little  more  charitable  towards  the  world  at  large. 
At  last  she  found  words  to  begin  her  story,  and  before  she 
went  to  bed,  she  had  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  told  every- 
thing— everything,  that  is,  as  to  the  lovers  she  had  rejected: 
of  Mr.  Arabin  she  said  not  a  word. 

"I  know  I  was  wrong,"  said  she,  speaking  of  the  blow  she 
had  given  to  Mr.  Slope ;  "but  T  didn't  know  what  he  might 
do,  and  I  had  to  protect  myself." 

*''He  richly  deserved  it,"  said  Mary. 

439 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Deserved  it!"  said  Eleanor,  whose  mind  as  regarded  Mr. 
Slope  was  almost  bloodthirsty.  "Had  I  stabbed  him  with  a 
dagger,  he  would  have  deserved  it.  But  what  will  they  say 
about  it  at  Plumstead?" 

"I  don't  think  I  should  tell  them,"  said  Mary.  Eleanor 
began  to  think  that  she  would  not. 

There  could  have  been  no  kinder  comforter  than  Mary 
Bold.  There  was  not  the  sUghtest  dash  of  triumph  about 
her  when  she  heard  of  the  Stanhope  scheme,  nor  did  she  al- 
lude to  her  former  opinion  when  Eleanor  called  her  late 
friend  Charlotte  a  base,  designing  woman.  She  re-echoed 
all  the  abuse  that  was  heaped  on  Mr.  Slope's  head,  and  never 
hinted  that  she  had  said  as  much  before.  "I  told  you  so,  I 
told  you  so !"  is  the  croak  of  a  true  Job's  comforter.  But 
Mary,  when  she  found  her  friend  lying  in  her  sorrow  and 
scraping  herself  with  potsherds,  forbore  to  argue  and  to  ex- 
ult. Eleanor  acknowledged  the  merit  of  the  forbearance, 
and  at  length  allowed  herself  to  be  tranquillised. 

On  the  next  day  she  did  not  go  out  of  the  house.  Bar- 
chester  she  thought  would  be  crowded  with  Stanhopes  and 
Slopes ;  perhaps  also  with  Arabins  and  Grantlys.  Indeed 
there  was  hardly  any  one  among  her  friends  whom  she  could 
have  met,  without  some  cause  of  uneasiness. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  she  heard  that  the  dean  was 
dead ;  and  she  also  heard  that  Mr.  Quiverful  had  been  finally 
appointed  to  the  hospital. 

In  the  evening  her  father  came  to  her,  and  then  the  story, 
or  as  much  of  it  as  she  could  bring  herself  to  tell  him,  had  to 
be  repeated.  He  was  not  in  truth  much  surprised  at  Mr. 
Slope's  effrontery;  but  he  was  obliged  to  act  as  though  he 
had  been,  to  save  his  daughter's  feelings.  He  was,  how- 
ever, anything  but  skilful  in  his  deceit,  and  she  saw 
through  it. 

"I  see,"  said  she,  "that  you  think  it  only  in  the  common 
course  of  things  that  Mr.  Slope  should  have  treated  me  in 
this  way."  She  had  said  nothing  to  him  about  the  embrace, 
nor  yet  of  the  way  in  which  it  had  been  met. 

"I  do  not  think  it  at  all  strange,"  said  he,  "that  any  one 
should  admire  my  Eleanor." 

"It  is  strange  to  me,"  said  she,  "that  any  man  should  have 

440 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    HOME. 

so  much  audacity,  without  ever  having  received  the  slightest 
encouragement." 

To  this  Mr.  Harding  answered  nothing.  With  the  arch- 
deacon it  would  have  been  the  text  for  a  rejoinder,  which 
would  not  have  disgraced  Bildad  the  Shuhite. 

"But  you'll  tell  the  archdeacon?"  asked  Mr.  Harding. 

"Tell  him  what?"  said  she  sharply. 

"Or  Susan  ?"  continued  Mr.  Harding.  "You'll  tell  Susan, 
you'll  let  them  know  that  they  wronged  you  in  supposing 
that  this  man's  addresses  would  be  agreeable  to  you." 

"They  may  find  that  out  their  own  way,"  said  she ;  "I  shall 
not  ever  willingly  mention  Mr.  Slope's  name  to  either  of 
them." 

"But  I  may." 

"I  have  no  right  to  hinder  you  from  doing  anything  that 
may  be  necessary  to  your  own  comfort,  but  pray  do  not  do  it 
for  my  sake.  Dr.  Grantly  never  thought  well  of  me,  and 
never  will.  I  don't  know  now  that  I  am  even  anxious  he 
should  do  so." 

And  then  they  went  to  the  affair  of  the  hospital.  "But  is 
it  true,  papa  ?" 

"What,  my  dear?"  said  he.  "About  the  dean?  Yes,  I 
fear  quite  true.     Indeed  I  know  there  is  no  doubt  about  it." 

"Poor  Miss  Trefoil.  I  am  so  sorry  for  her.  But  I  did 
not  mean  that,"  said  Eleanor.  "But  about  the  hospital, 
papa  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  I  believe  it  is  true  that  Mr.  Quiverful  is 
to  have  it." 

"Oh,  what  a  shame!" 

"No,  my  dear,  not  at  all,  not  at  all  a  shame:  I  am  sure  I 
hope  it  will  suit  him." 

"But,  papa,  you  know  it  is  a  shame.  After  all  your  hopes, 
all  your  expectations  to  get  back  to  your  old  house,  to  see  it 
given  away  in  this  way  to  a  perfect  stranger !" 

"My  dear,  the  bishop  had  a  right  to  give  it  to  whom  he 
pleased." 

"I  deny  that,  papa.  He  has  no  such  right.  It  is  not  as 
though  you  were  a  candidate  for  a  new  piece  of  preferment. 
If  the  bishop  has  a  grain  of  justice — " 

"The  bishop  offered  it  to  me  on  his  terms,  and  as  I  did 

.441 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

not  like  the  terms,  I  refused  it.     After  that,  I  cannot  com- 
plain." 

"Terms !  he  had  no  right  to  make  terms." 

"I  don't  know  about  that;  but  it  seems  he  had  the  power. 
But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Nelly,  I  am  as  well  satisfied  as  it  is. 
When  the  affair  became  the  subject  of  angry  discussion,  I 
thoroughly  wished  to  be  rid  of  it  altogether." 

"But  you  did  want  to  go  back  to  the  old  house,  papa.  You 
told  me  so  yourself." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  did.  For  a  short  time  I  did  wish  it.  And 
I  was  foolish  in  doing  so.  I  am  getting  old  now ;  and  my 
chief  worldly  wish  is  for  peace  and  rest.  Had  I  gone  back 
to  the  hospital,  I  should  have  had  endless  contentions  with 
the  bishop,  contentions  with  his  chaplain,  and  contentions 
with  the  archdeacon.  I  am  not  up  to  this  now,  I  am  not  able 
to  meet  such  troubles ;  and  therefore  I  am  not  ill-pleased  to 
find  myself  left  to  the  little  church  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  I  shall 
never  starve,"  added  he,  laughing,  "as  long  as  you  are  here." 

"But  will  you  come  and  live  with  me,  papa?"  she  said  ear- 
nestly, taking  him  by  both  his  hands.  "If  you  will  do  that, 
if  you  will  promise  that,  I  will  own  that  you  are  right." 

"I  will  dine  with  you  to-day  at  any  rate." 

"No,  but  live  here  altogether.  Give  up  that  close,  odious 
little  room  in  High  Street." 

"My  dear,  it's  a  very  nice  little  room;  and  you  are  really 
quite  uncivil." 

"Oh,  papa,  don't  joke.  It's  not  a  nice  place  for  you.  You 
say  you  are  growing  old,  though  I  am  sure  you  are  not." 

"Am  not  I,  my  dear?" 

"No,  papa,  not  old — not  to  say  old.  But  you  are  quite 
old  enough  to  feel  the  want  of  a  decent  room  to  sit  in.  You 
know  how  lonely  Mary  and  I  are  here.  You  know  nobody 
ever  sleeps  in  the  big  front  bed-room.  It  is  really  unkind 
of  you  to  remain  up  there  alone,  when  you  are  so  much 
wanted  here." 

"Thank  you,  Nelly — thank  you.     But,  my  dear — " 

"If  you  had  been  living  here,  papa,  with  us,  as  I  really 
think  you  ought  to  have  done,  considering  how  lonely  we 
are,  there  would  have  been  none  of  all  this  dreadful  affair 
about  Mr.  Slope." 

442 


i 


MRS.    BOLD    AT    HOME. 

Mr.  Harding-,  however,  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  talked 
over  into  giving  up  his  own  and  only  little  pied  a  terre  in  the 
High  Street.  He  promised  to  come  and  dine  with  his  daugh- 
ter, and  stay,  with  her,  and  visit  her,  and  do  evervthing  but 
absolutely  live  with  her.  It  did  not  suit  the  peculiar  feelings 
of  the  man  to  tell  his  daughter  that  though  she  had  rejected 
Mr.  Slope,  and  been  ready  to  reject  Mr,  Stanhope,  some 
other  more  favoured  suitor  would  probably  soon  appear ;  and 
that  on  the  appearance  of  such  a  suitor  the  big  front  bed- 
room might  perhaps  be  more  frequently  in  requisition  than 
at  present.  But  doubtless  such  an  idea  crossed  his  mind,  and 
added  its  weight  to  the  other  reasons  which  made  him  decide 
on  still  keeping  the  close,  odious  little  room  in  High  Street. 

The  evening  passed  over  quietly  and  in  comfort.  Eleanor 
was  always  happier  with  her  father  than  with  any  one  else. 
He  had  not,  perhaps,  any  natural  taste  for  baby-worship,  but 
he  was  always  ready  to  sacrifice  himself,  and  therefore  made 
an  excellent  third  in  a  trio  with  his  daughter  and  Mary  Bold 
in  singing  the  praises  of  the  wonderful  child. 

They  were  standing  together  over  their  music  in  the  even- 
ing, the  baby  having  again  been  put  to  bed  upon  the  sofa, 
when  the  servant  brought  in  a  very  small  note  in  a  beautiful 
pink  envelope.  It  quite  filled  the  room  with  perfume  as  it 
lay  upon  the  small  salver.  Mary  Bold  and  Mrs.  Bold  were 
both  at  the  piano,  and  Mr.  Harding  was  sitting  close  to  them, 
with  the  violoncello  between  his  legs ;  so  that  the  elegancy  of 
the  epistle  was  visible  to  them  all. 

"Please,  ma'am.  Dr.  Stanhope's  coachman  says  he  is  to 
wait  for  an  answer,"  said  the  servant. 

Eleanor  got  very  red  in  the  face  as  she  took  the  note  in 
her  hand.  She  had  never  seen  the  writing  before.  Char- 
lotte's epistles,  to  which  she  was  well  accustomed,  were  of  a 
very  different  style  and  kind.  She  generally  wrote  on  large 
note-paper;  she  twisted  up  her  letters  into  the  shape  and 
sometimes  into  the  size  of  cocked  hats  ;  she  addressed  them 
in  a  sprawling  manly  hand,  and  not  unusually  added  a  blot 
or  a  smudge,  as  though  such  were  her  own  peculiar  sign- 
manual.  The  address  of  this  note  was  written  in  a  beautiful 
female  hand,  and  the  gummed  wafer  bore  on  it  an  impress 
of  a  gilt  coronet.     Though  Eleanor  had  never  seen  such  a 

443 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

one  before,  she  guessed  that  it  came  from  the  signora.  Such 
epistles  were  very  numerously  sent  out  from  any  house  in 
which  the  signora  might  happen  to  be  dwelling,  but  they 
were  rarely  addressed  to  ladies.  When  the  coachman  was 
told  by  the  lady's  maid  to  take  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Bold,  he 
openly  expressed  his  opinion  that  there  was  some  mistake 
about  it.  Whereupon  the  lady's  maid  boxed  the  coachman's 
ears.  Had  Mr.  Slope  seen  in  how  meek  a  spirit  the  coach- 
man took  the  rebuke,  he  might  have  learnt  a  useful  lesson, 
both  in  philosophy  and  religion. 

The  note  was  as  follows.  It  may  be  taken  as  a  faithful 
promise  that  no  further  letter  whatever  shall  be  transcribed 
at  length  in  these  pages. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Bold, — May  I  ask  you,  as  a  great  favour, 
to  call  on  me  to-morrow?  You  can  say  what  hour  will  best 
suit  you ;  but  quite  early,  if  you  can.  I  need  hardly  say  that 
if  I  could  call  upon  you  I  should  not  take  this  liberty  with 
you. 

"I  partly  know  what  occurred  the  other  day,  and  I  promise 
you  that  you  shall  meet  with  no  annoyance  if  you  will  come 
to  me.  My  brother  leaves  us  for  London  to-day;  from 
thence  he  goes  to  Italy. 

"It  will  probably  occur  to  you  that  I  should  not  thus  In- 
trude on  you,  unless  I  had  that  to  say  to  you  which  may  be 
of  considerable  moment.  Pray  therefore  excuse  me,  even  if 
you  do  not  grant  my  request,  and  believe  me, 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"M.  Vesey  Neroni. 
"Thursday  Evening." 

The  three  of  them  sat  in  consultation  on  this  epistle  for 
some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  decided  that  Eleanor 
should  write  a  line  saying  that  she  would  see  the  signora  the 
next  morning  at  twelve  o'clock. 


444 


THE    STANHOPES    AT    HOME. 
CHAPTER   XLV. 

THE   STANHOPES  AT  HOME. 

WE  must  now  return  to  the  Stanhopes,  and  see  how 
they    behaved    themselves    on    their    return    from 
Ullathome. 

Charlotte,  who  came  back  in  the  first  homeward  journey 
with  her  sister,  waited  in  palpitating  expectation  till  the  car- 
riage drove  up  to  the  door  a  second  time.  She  did  not  run 
down  or  stand  at  the  window,  or  show  in  any  outward  man- 
ner that  she  looked  for  anything  wonderful  to  occur;  but, 
when  she  heard  the  carriage-wheels,  she  stood  up  with  erect 
ears,  listening  for  Eleanor's  footfall  on  the  pavement  or  the 
cheery  sound  of  Bertie's  voice  welcoming  her  in.  Had  she 
heard  either,  she  would  have  felt  that  all  was  right;  but 
neither  sound  was  there  for  her  to  hear.  She  heard  only 
her  father's  slow  step,  as  he  ponderously  let  himself  down 
from  the  carriage,  and  slowly  walked  along  the  hall,  till  he 
got  into  his  own  private  room  on  the  ground  floor.  "Send 
Miss  Stanhope  to  me,"  he  said  to  the  servant. 

"There's  something  wrong  now,"  said  Madeline,  who  was 
lying  on  her  sofa  in  the  back  drawing-room. 

"It's  all  up  with  Bertie,"  replied  Charlotte.  "I  know,  I 
know,"  she  said  to  the  servant,  as  he  brought  up  the  mes- 
sage.     "Tell   my   father   I   will  be   with   him   immediately." 

"Bertie's  wooing  has  gone  astray,"  said  Madeline ;  "I  knew 
it  would." 

"It  has  been  his  own  fault  then.  She  was  ready  enough, 
I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Charlotte,  with  that  sort  of  ill-nature 
which  is  not  uncommon  when  one  woman  speaks  of  another. 

"What  will  you  say  to  him  now  ?"  By  "him,"  the  signora 
meant  their  father. 

"That  will  be  as  I  find  him.  He  was  ready  to  pay  two 
hundred  pounds  for  Bertie,  to  stave  off  the  worst  of  his  cred- 
itors, if  this  marriage  had  gone  on.  Bertie  must  now  have 
the  money  instead,  and  go  and  take  his  chance." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Heaven  knows !  smoking  in  the  bottom  of  Mr.  Thome's 

445 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ha-ha,  or  philandering  with  some  of  those  Miss  Chadwicks. 
Nothing  will  ever  make  an  impression  on  him.  But  he'll  be 
furious  if  I  don't  go  down." 

"No ;  nothing  ever  will.  But  don't  be  long,  Charlotte,  for 
I  want  my  tea." 

And  so  Charlotte  went  down  to  her  father.  There  was  a 
very  black  cloud  on  the  old  man's  brow ;  blacker  than  his 
daughter  could  ever  yet  remember  to  have  seen  there.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  own  arm-chair,  not  comfortably  over  the 
fire,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  waiting  till  she  should 
come  and  listen  to  him. 

"What  has  become  of  your  brother?"  he  said,  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  shut. 

"I  should  rather  ask  you,"  said  Charlotte.  *T  left  you 
both  at  Ullathorne,  when  I  came  away.  What  have  you 
done  with  Mrs.  Bold?" 

"Mrs.  Bold !  nonsense.  The  woman  has  gone  home  as  she 
ought  to  do.  And  heartily  glad  I  am  that  she  should  not  be 
sacrificed  to  so  heartless  a  reprobate." 

"Oh,  papa !" 

"A  heartless  reprobate !  Tell  me  now  where  he  is,  and 
what  he  is  going  to  do.  I  have  allowed  myself  to  be  fooled 
between  you.  Marriage,  indeed !  Who  on  earth  that  has 
money,  or  credit,  or  respect  in  the  world  to  lose,  would  marry 
him?" 

"It  is  no  use  your  scolding  me,  papa.  I  have  done  the  best 
I  could  for  him  and  you." 

"And  Madeline  is  nearly  as  bad,"  said  the  prebendary,  who 
was  in  truth  very,  very  angry. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  we  are  all  bad,"  replied  Charlotte. 

The  old  man  emitted  a  huge  leonine  sigh.  If  they  were  all 
bad,  who  had  made  them  so?  If  they  were  unprincipled, 
selfish,  and  disreputable,  who  was  to  be  blamed  for  the  edu- 
cation which  had  had  so  injurious  an  efiFect? 

"I  know  you'll  ruin  me  among  you,"  said  he. 

"Why,  papa,  what  nonsense  that  is.  You  are  living  within 
your  income  this  minute,  and  if  there  are  any  new  debts,  I 
don't  know  of  them.  I  am  sure  there  ought  to  be  none,  for 
we  are  dull  enough  here." 

"Are  those  bills  of  Madeline's  paid  ?" 

446 


THE    STANHOPES    AT    HOME. 

"No,  they  are  not.     Who  was  to  pay  them?" 

"Her  husband  may  pay  them." 

"Her  husband!  would  you  wish  me  to  tell  her  you  say  so? 
Do  you  wish  to  turn  her  out  of  your  house?" 

"I  wish  she  would  know  how  to  behave  herself." 

"Why,  what  on  earth  has  she  done  now  ?  Poor  Madeline ! 
To-day  is  only  the  second  time  she  has  gone  out  since  we 
came  to  this  vile  town." 

He  then  sat  silent  for  a  time,  thinking  in  what  shape  he 
would  declare  his  resolve.  "Well,  papa,"  said  Charlotte, 
"shall  I  stay  here,  or  may  I  go  up-stairs  and  give  mamma 
her  tea?" 

"You  are  in  your  brother's  confidence.  Tell  me  what  he  is 
going  to  do  ?" 

"Nothing,  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"Nothing — nothing!  nothing  but  eat  and  drink,  and  spend 
every  shilling  of  my  money  he  can  lay  his  hands  upon.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind,  Charlotte.  He  shall  eat  and  drink 
no  more  in  this  house." 

"Very  well.     Then  I  suppose  he  must  go  back  to  Italy." 

"He  may  go  where  he  pleases." 

"That's  easily  said,  papa;  but  what  does  it  mean?  You 
can't  let  him " 

"It  means  this,"  said  the  doctor,  speaking  more  loudly 
than  was  his  wont,  and  with  wrath  flashing  from  his  eyes ; 
"that  as  sure  as  God  rules  in  heaven,  I  will  not  maintain  him 
any  longer  in  idleness." 

"Oh,  ruling  in  heaven !"  said  Charlotte.  "It  is  no  use 
talking  about  that.  You  must  rule  him  here  on  earth;  and 
the  question  is,  how  you  can  do  it.  You  can't  turn  him  out 
of  the  house  penniless,  to  beg  about  the  street." 

"He  may  beg  where  he  likes." 

"He  must  go  back  to  Carrara.  That  is  the  cheapest  place 
he  can  live  at,  and  nobody  there  will  give  him  credit  for 
above  two  or  three  hundred  pauls.  But  you  must  let  him 
have  the  means  of  sfoing." 

"As  sure  as " 

"Oh,  papa,  don't  swear.  You  know  you  must  do  it.  You 
were  readv  to  pay  two  hundred  pounds  for  him  if  this  mar- 
riage came  oflf.     Half  that  will  start  him  to  Carrara." 

447 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"What?  give  him  a  hundred  pounds!" 

"You  know  we  are  all  in  the  dark,  papa,"  said  she,  think- 
ing it  expedient  to  change  the  conversation.  "For  anything 
we  know,  he  may  be  at  this  moment  engaged  to  Mrs.  Bold." 

"Fiddlestick,"  said  the  father,  who  had  seen  the  way  in 
which  Mrs.  Bold  had  got  into  the  carriage,  while  his  son 
stood  apart  without  even  offering  her  his  hand. 

"Well,  then,  he  must  go  to  Carrara,"  said  Charlotte. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  lock  of  the  front  door  was  heard, 
and  Charlotte's  quick  ears  detected  her  brother's  cat-like  step 
in  the  hall.  She  said  nothing,  feeling  that  for  the  present 
Bertie  had  better  keep  out  of  her  father's  way.  But  Dr. 
Stanhope  also  heard  the  sound  of  the  lock. 

"Who's  that?"  he  demanded.  Charlotte  made  no  reply, 
and  he  asked  again,  "Who  is  that  that  has  just  come  in? 
Open  the  door.     Who  is  it  ?" 

"I  suppose  it  is  Bertie." 

"Bid  him  come  here,"  said  the  father.  But  Bertie,  who 
was  close  to  the  door  and  heard  the  call,  required  no  further 
bidding,  but  walked  in  with  a  perfectly  unconcerned  and 
cheerful  air.  It  was  this  peculiar  insouciance  which  angered 
Dr.  Stanhope,  even  more  than  his  son's  extravagance. 

"Well,  sir?"  said  the  doctor. 

"And  how  did  you  get  home,  sir,  with  your  fair  com- 
panion?" said  Bertie.  "I  suppose  she  is  not  up-stairs,  Char- 
lotte?" 

"Bertie,"  said  Charlotte,  "papa  is  in  no  humour  for  joking. 
He  is  very  angry  with  you." 

"Angry!"  said  Bertie,  raising  his  eyebrows,  as  though  he 
had  never  yet  given  his  parent  cause  for  a  single  moment's 
uneasiness. 

"Sit  down,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Stanhope  very 
sternly,  but  not  now  very  loudly.  "And  I'll  trouble  you  to 
sit  down  too,  Charlotte.  Your  mother  can  wait  for  her  tea 
a  few  minutes." 

Charlotte  sat  down  on  the  chair  nearest  to  the  door,  in 
somewhat  of  a  perverse  sort  of  manner;  as  much  as  though 
she  would  say — Well,  here  I  am ;  you  shan't  say  I  don't  do 
what  I  am  bid,  but  I'll  be  whipped  if  I  give  way  to  you. 
And  she  was   determined  not  to  give  way.     She  too  was 

448 


THE    STANHOPES    AT    HOME. 

angry  with  Bertie;  but  she  was  not  the  less  ready  on  that 
account  to  defend  him  from  his  father.  Bertie  also  sat 
down.  He  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  library-table,  upon 
which  he  put  his  elbow,  and  then  resting  his  face  comfort- 
ably on  one  hand,  he  began  drawing  little  pictures  on  a  sheet 
of  paper  with  the  other.  Before  the  scene  was  over  he  had 
completed  admirable  figures  of  Miss  Thorne,  Mrs.  Proudie, 
and  Lady  De  Courcy,  and  begun  a  family  piece  to  comprise 
the  whole  set  of  the  Lookalofts. 

"Would  it  suit  you,  sir,"  said  the  father,  "to  give  me  some 
idea  as  to  what  your  present  intentions  are? — what  way  of 
living  you  propose  to  yourself?" 

"Fll  do  anything  you  can  suggest,  sir,"  replied  Bertie. 

"No,  I  shall  suggest  nothing  further.  My  time  for  sug- 
gesting has  gone  by.  I  have  only  one  order  to  give,  and 
that  is,  that  you  leave  my  house." 

"To-night  ?"  said  Bertie ;  and  the  simple  tone  of  the  ques- 
tion left  the  doctor  without  any  adequately  dignified  method 
of  reply. 

"Papa  does  not  quite  mean  to-night,"  said  Charlotte,  "at 
least  I  suppose  not." 

"To-morrow,  perhaps,"  suggested  Bertie. 

"Yes,  sir,  to-morrow,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  shall  leave 
this  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,  sir.  Will  the  4.30  p.m.  train  be  soon  enough?" 
and  Bertie,  as  he  asked,  put  the  finishing  touch  to  Miss 
Thome's  high-heeled  boots. 

"You  may  go  how  and  when  and  where  you  please,  so  that 
you  leave  my  house  to-morrow.  You  have  disgraced  me, 
sir ;  you  have  disgraced  yourself,  and  me,  and  your  sisters." 

"I  am  glad  at  least,  sir,  that  I  have  not  disgraced  my 
mother,"  said  Bertie. 

Charlotte  could  hardly  keep  her  countenance;  but  the  doc- 
tor's brow  grew  still  blacker  than  ever.  Bertie  was  execut- 
ing his  chef  d'ccuvre  in  the  delineation  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  nose 
and  mouth. 

"You  are  a  heartless  reprobate,  sir;  a  heartless,  thankless, 
good-for-nothing  reprobate.  I  have  done  with  you.  You 
are  my  son — that  I  cannot  help ;  but  vou  shall  have  no  more 
part  or  parcel  in  me  as  my  child,  nor  I  in  you  as  your  father." 

»  449 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Oh,  papa,  papa !  you  must  not,  shall  not  say  so,"  said 
Charlotte. 

"I  will  say  so,  and  do  say  so,"  said  the  father,  rising  from 
his  chair.     "And  now  leave  the  room,  sir." 

"Stop,  stop,"  said  Charlotte ;  "why  don't  you  speak,  Ber- 
tie ?  why  don't  you  look  up  and  speak  ?  It  is  your  manner 
that  makes  papa  so  angry." 

"He  is  perfectly  indifferent  to  all  decency,  to  all  propriety," 
said  the  doctor;  and  then  he  shouted  out,  "Leave  the  room, 
sir !     Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ?" 

"Papa,  papa,  I  will  not  let  you  part  so.  I  know  you  will 
be  sorry  for  it."  And  then  she  added,  getting  up  and  whis- 
pering into  his  ear,  "Is  he  only  to  blame?  Think  of  that. 
We  have  made  our  own  bed,  and,  such  as  it  is,  we  must  lie 
on  it.  It  is  no  use  for  us  to  quarrel  among  ourselves,"  and 
as  she  finished  her  whisper  Bertie  finished  off  the  countess's 
bustle,  which  was  so  well  done  that  it  absolutely  seemed  to 
be  swaying  to  and  fro  on  the  paper  with  its  usual  lateral 
motion. 

"My  father  is  angry  at  the  present  time,"  said  Bertie, 
looking  up  for  a  moment  from  his  sketches,  "because  I  am 
not  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Bold.  What  can  I  say  on  the  mat- 
ter? It  is  true  that  I  am  not  going  to  marry  her.  In  the 
first  place " 

"That  is  not  true,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Stanhope;  "but  I  will  not 
argue  with  you." 

"You  were  angry  just  this  moment  because  I  would  not 
speak,"  said  Bertie,  going  on  with  a  young  Lookaloft. 

"Give  over  drawing,"  said  Charlotte,  going  up  to  him  and 
taking  the  paper  from  under  his  hand.  The  caricatures, 
however,  she  preserved,  and  showed  them  afterwards  to  the 
friends  of  the  Thornes,  the  Proudies,  and  De  Courcys.  Ber- 
tie, deprived  of  his  occupation,  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair  and  waited  further  orders. 

"I  think  it  will  certainly  be  for  the  best  that  Bertie  should 
leave  this  at  once,  perhaps  to-morrow,"  said  Charlotte;  "but 
pray,  papa,  let  us  arrange  some  scheme  together." 

"If  he  will  leave  this  to-morrow,  I  will  give  him  lo/.,  and 
he  shall  be  paid  5/.  a  month  by  the  banker  at  Carrara  as  long 
as  he  stays  permanently  in  that  place." 

450 


THE    STANHOPES    AT    HOAIE. 

"Well,  sir!  it  won't  be  long,"  said  Bertie;  "for  I  shall  be 
starved  to  death  in  about  three  months." 

"He  must  have  marble  to  work  with,"  said  Charlotte. 

"I  have  plenty  there  in  the  studio  to  last  me  three  months," 
said  Bertie.  "It  will  be  no  use  attempting  anything  large  in 
so  limited  a  time;  unless  I  do  my  own  tombstone." 

Terms,  however,  were  ultimately  come  to,  somewhat  more 
liberal  than  those  proposed,  and  the  doctor  was  induced  to 
shake  hands  with  his  son,  and  bid  him  good  night.  Dr. 
Stanhope  would  not  go  up  to  tea,  but  had  it  brought  to  him 
in  his  study  by  his  daughter. 

But  Bertie  went  up-stairs  and  spent  a  pleasant  evening. 
He  finished  the  Lookalofts,  greatly  to  the  delight  of  his  sis- 
ters, though  the  manner  of  portraying  their  decollete  dresses 
was  not  the  most  refined.  Finding  how  matters  were  going, 
he  by  degrees  allowed  it  to  escape  from  him  that  he  had  not 
pressed  his  suit  upon  the  widow  in  a  very  urgent  way. 

"I  suppose,  in  point  of  fact,  you  never  proposed  at  all?" 
said  Charlotte. 

"Oh,  she  understood  that  she  might  have  me  if  she 
wished,"  said  he. 

"And  she  didn't  wish,"  said  the  signora. 

"You  have  thrown  me  over  in  the  most  shameful  manner," 
said  Charlotte.  "I  suppose  you  told  her  all  about  my  little 
plan?" 

"Well,  it  came  out  somehow ;  at  least  the  most  of  it." 

"There's  an  end  of  that  alliance,"  said  Charlotte;  "but  it 
doesn't  matter  much.  I  suppose  we  shall  all  be  back  at 
Como  soon." 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  said  the  signora;  "I'm  sick  of  the 
sight  of  black  coats.  If  that  Mr.  Slope  comes  here  any  more, 
he'll  be  the  death  of  me." 

"You've  been  the  ruin  of  him,  I  think,"  said  Charlotte. 

"And  as  for  a  second  black-coated  lover  of  mine.  I  am  go- 
ing to  make  a  present  of  him  to  another  lady  with  most 
singular  disinterestedness." 

The  next  day,  true  to  his  promise,  Bertie  packed  up  and 
went  off  by  the  4.30  p.m.  train,  with  20/.  in  his  pocket,  bound 
for  the  marble  quarries  of  Carrara.  And  so  he  disappears 
from  our  scene. 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

At  twelve  o'clock  on  the  day  following  that  on  which 
Bertie  went,  Mrs.  Bold,  true  also  to  her  word,  knocked  at 
Dr.  Stanhope's  door  with  a  timid  hand  and  palpitating  heart. 
She  was  at  once  shown  up  to  the  back  drawing-room,  the 
folding  doors  of  which  were  closed,  so  that  in  visiting  the 
signora  Eleanor  was  not  necessarily  thrown  into  any  com- 
munion with  those  in  the  front  room.  As  she  went  up  the 
stairs,  she  saw  none  of  the  family,  and  was  so  far  saved 
much  of  the  annoyance  which  she  had  dreaded. 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Bold;  very  kind,  after 
what  has  happened,"  said  the  lady  on  the  sofa  with  her 
sweetest  smile. 

"You  wrote  in  such  a  strain  that  I  could  not  but  come  to 
you." 

*T  did,  I  did;  I  wanted  to  force  you  to  see  me." 

"Well,  signora;  I  am  here." 

"How  cold  you  are  to  me.  But  I  suppose  I  must  put  up 
with  that.  I  know  you  think  you  have  reason  to  be  dis- 
pleased with  us  all.  Poor  Bertie !  if  you  knew  all,  you  would 
not  be  angry  with  him." 

"I  am  not  angry  with  your  brother — not  in  the  least.  But 
I  hope  you  did  not  send  for  me  here  to  talk  about  him." 

"If  you  are  angry  with  Charlotte,  that  is  worse;  for  you 
have  no  warmer  friend  in  all  Barchester.  But  I  did  not 
send  for  you  to  talk  about  this, — pray  bring  your  chair  near- 
er, Mrs.  Bold,  so  that  I  may  look  at  you.  It  is  so  unnatural 
to  see  you  keeping  so  far  off  from  me." 

Eleanor  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  brought  her  chair  close  to 
the  sofa. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Bold,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
which  you  may  perhaps  think  indelicate ;  but  yet  I  know  that 
I  am  right  in  doing  so." 

Hereupon  Mrs.  Bold  said  nothing,  but  felt  inclined  to 
shake  in  her  chair.  The  signora,  she  knew,  was  not  very 
particular,  and  that  which  to  her  appeared  to  be  indelicate 
might  to  Mrs.  Bold  appear  to  be  extremely  indecent. 

"I  believe  you  know  Mr.  Arabin?" 

Mrs.  Bold  would  have  given  the  world  not  to  blush,  but 
her  blood  was  not  at  her  own  command.  She  did  blush  up 
to  her  forehead,  and  the  signora,  who  had  made  her  sit  in  a 

452 


THE   STANHOPES   AT   HOME. 

special  light  in  order  that  she  might  watch  her,  saw  that  she 
did  so. 

"Yes, — I  am  acquainted  with  him.  That  is,  slightly.  He 
is  an  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Grantly,  and  Dr.  Grantly  is  my 
brother-in-law." 

"Well ;  if  you  know  Mr.  Arabin,  I  am  sure  you  must  like 
him.  I  know  and  like  him  much.  Everybody  that  knows 
him  must  like  him." 

Mrs.  Bold  felt  it  quite  impossible  to  say  anything  in  reply 
to  this.  Her  blood  was  rushing  about  her  body  she  knew 
not  how  or  why.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  swinging  in 
her  chair ;  and  she  knew  that  she  was  not  only  red  in  the  face, 
but  also  almost  suffocated  with  heat.  However,  she  sat  still 
and  said  nothing. 

"How  stifif  you  are  with  me,  Mrs.  Bold,"  said  the  signora ; 
"and  I  the  while  am  doing  for  you  all  that  one  woman  can  do 
to  serve  another." 

A  kind  of  thought  came  over  the  widow's  mind  that  per- 
haps the  signora's  friendship  was  real,  and  that  at  any  rate 
it  could  not  hurt  her;  and  another  kind  of  thought,  a  glim- 
mering of  a  thought,  came  to  her  also, — that  Mr.  Arabin 
was  too  precious  to  be  lost.  She  despised  the  signora ;  but 
might  she  not  stoop  to  conquer?  It  should  be  but  the  small- 
est fraction  of  a  stoop! 

"I  don't  want  to  be  stiff,"  she  said,  "but  your  questions 
are  so  very  singular." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  ask  you  one  more  singular  still,"  said 
Madeline  Neroni,  raising  herself  on  her  elbow  and  turning 
her  own  face  full  upon  her  companion's.  "Do  you  love  him, 
love  him  with  all  your  heart  and  soul,  with  all  the  love  your 
bosom  can  feel  ?  For  I  can  tell  you  that  he  loves  you,  adores 
you,  worships  you,  thinks  of  you  and  nothing  else,  is  now 
thinking  of  you  as  he  attempts  to  write  his  sermon  for  next 
Sunday's  preaching.  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  loved 
in  such  a  way  by  such  a  man,  that  is,  if  I  were  an  object  fit 
for  any  man  to  love!" 

Mrs.  Bold  got  up  from  her  seat  and  stood  speechless  be- 
fore the  woman  who  was  now  addressing  her  in  this  impas- 
sioned way.  When  the  signora  thus  alluded  to  herself,  the 
widow's  heart  was  softened,  and  she  put  her  own  hand,  as 

453 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

though  caressingly,  on  that  of  her  companion  which  was  rest- 
ing on  the  table.  The  signora  grasped  it  and  went  on 
speaking. 

"What  I  tell  you  is  God's  own  truth ;  and  it  is  for  you  to 
use  it  as  may  be  best  for  your  own  happiness.  But  you  must 
not  betray  me.  He  knows  nothing  of  this.  He  knows  noth- 
ing of  my  knowing  his  inmost  heart.  He  is  simple  as  a  child 
in  these  matters.  He  told  me  his  secret  in  a  thousand  ways 
because  he  could  not  dissemble ;  but  he  does  not  dream  that 
he  has  told  it.     You  know  it  now,  and  I  advise  you  to  use  it." 

Eleanor  returned  the  pressure  of  the  other's  hand  with  an 
infinitesimal  soiipqon  of  a  squeeze. 

"And  remember,"  continued  the  signora,  "he  is  not  like 
other  men.  You  must  not  expect  him  to  come  to  you  with 
vows  and  oaths  and  pretty  presents,  to  kneel  at  your  feet,  and 
kiss  your  shoe-strings.  If  you  want  that,  there  are  plenty 
to  do  it;  but  he  won't  be  one  of  them."  Eleanor's  bosom 
nearly  burst  with  a  sigh ;  but  Madeline,  not  heeding  her,  went 
on.  "With  him,  yea  will  stand  for  yea,  and  nay  for  nay. 
Though  his  heart  should  break  for  it,  the  woman  who  shall 
reject  him  once,  will  have  rejected  him  once  and  for  all. 
Remember  that.  And  now,  Mrs.  Bold,  I  will  not  keep  you, 
for  you  are  fluttered.  I  partly  guess  what  use  you  will  make 
of  what  I  have  said  to  you.  If  ever  you  are  a  happy  wife  in 
that  man's  house,  we  shall  be  far  away ;  but  I  shall  expect 
you  to  write  me  one  line  to  say  that  you  have  forgiven  the 
sins  of  the  family." 

Eleanor  half  whispered  that  she  would,  and  then,  without 
uttering  another  word,  crept  out  of  the  room,  and  down  the 
stairs,  opened  the  front  door  for  herself  without  hearing  or 
seeing  any  one,  and  found  herself  in  the  close. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  analyse  Eleanor's  feelings  as  she 
walked  home.  She  was  nearly  stupefied  by  the  things  that 
had  been  said  to  her.  She  felt  sore  that  her  heart  should 
have  been  so  searched  and  riddled  by  a  comparative  stran- 
ger, by  a  woman  whom  she  had  never  liked  and  never  could 
like.  She  was  mortified  that  the  man  whom  she  owned  to 
herself  that  she  loved  should  have  concealed  his  love  from 
her  and  shown  it  to  another.  There  was  much  to  vex  her 
proud  spirit.     But  there  was,  nevertheless,  an  under-stratum 

454 


A    PARTING   INTERVIEW. 

of  joy  in  all  this  which  buoyed  her  up  wondrously.  She 
tried  if  she  could  disbelieve  what  Madame  Neroni  had  said 
to  her ;  but  she  found  that  she  could  not.  It  was  true ;  it 
must  be  true.     She  could  not,  would  not,  did  not  doubt  it. 

On  one  point  she  fully  resolved  to  follow  the  advice  given 
her.  If  it  should  ever  please  Mr.  Arabin  to  put  such  a  ques- 
tion to  her  as  that  suggested,  her  "yea"  should  be  "yea." 
Would  not  all  her  miseries  be  at  an  end,  if  she  could  talk  of 
them  to  him  openly,  with  her  head  resting  on  his  shoulder? 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

MR.    slope's    parting    INTERVIEW    WITH    THE   SIGNORA. 

ON  the  following  day  the  signora  was  in  her  pride.  She 
was  dressed  in  her  brightest  of  morning  dresses,  and 
had  quite  a  levee  round  her  couch.  It  was  a  beautifully 
bright  October  afternoon ;  all  the  gentlemen  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood were  in  Barchester,  and  those  who  had  the  entry  of 
Dr.  Stanhope's  house  were  in  the  signora's  back  drawing- 
room.  Charlotte  and  Mrs.  Stanhope  were  in  the  front  room, 
and  such  of  the  lady's  squires  as  could  not  for  the  moment 
get  near  the  centre  of  attraction  had  to  waste  their  fragrance 
on  the  mother  and  sister. 

The  first  who  came  and  the  last  to  leave  was  Mr.  Arabin. 
This  was  the  second  visit  he  had  paid  to  Madame  Neroni 
since  he  had  met  her  at  Ullathorne.  He  came  he  knew  not 
why,  to  talk  about  he  knew  not  what.  But,  in  truth,  the 
feelings  which  now  troubled  him  were  new  to  him,  and  he 
could  not  analyse  them.  It  may  seem  strange  that  he  should 
thus  come  dangling  about  Madame  Neroni  because  he  was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Bold ;  but  it  was  nevertheless  the  fact ;  and 
though  he  could  not  understand  why  he  did  so  Madame  Ne- 
roni understood  it  well  enough. 

She  had  been  gentle  and  kind  to  him,  and  had  encouraged 
his  staying.  Therefore  he  stayed  on.  She  pressed  his  hand 
when  he  first  greeted  her;  she  made  him  remain  near  her; 
and  whispered  to  him  little  nothings.  And  then  her  eye, 
brilliant  and  bright,  now  mirthful,  now  melancholy,  and  in- 

455 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

vincible  in  either  way !  What  man  with  warm  feelings, 
blood  unchilled,  and  a  heart  not  guarded  by  a  triple  steel  of 
experience  could  have  withstood  those  eyes !  The  lady,  it  is 
true,  intended  to  do  him  no  mortal  injury,  she  merely  chose 
to  inhale  a  slight  breath  of  incense  before  she  handed  the 
casket  over  to  another.  Whether  Mrs.  Bold  would  willingly 
have  spared  even  so  much  is  another  question. 

And  then  came  Mr.  Slope.  All  the  world  now  knew  that 
Mr.  Slope  was  a  candidate  for  the  deanery,  and  that  he  was 
generally  considered  to  be  the  favourite.  Mr.  Slope,  there- 
fore, walked  rather  largely  upon  the  earth.  He  gave  to  him- 
self a  portly  air,  such  as  might  become  a  dean,  spoke  but  lit- 
tle to  other  clergymen,  and  shunned  the  bishop  as  much  as 
possible.  How  the  meagre  little  prebendary,  and  the  burly 
chancellor,  and  all  the  minor  canons  and  vicars  choral,  ay, 
and  all  the  choristers  too,  cowered  and  shook  and  walked 
about  with  long  faces  when  they  read  or  heard  of  that  article 
in  the  Jupiter.  Now  were  coming  the  days  when  nothing 
would  avail  to  keep  the  impure  spirit  from  the  cathedral  pul- 
pit. That  pulpit  would  indeed  be  his  own.  Precentors,  vic- 
ars, and  choristers  might  hang  up  their  harps  on  the  wil- 
lows. Ichabod !  Ichabod !  the  glory  of  their  house  was  de- 
parting from  them. 

Mr.  Slope,  great  as  he  was  with  embryo  grandeur,  still 
came  to  see  the  signora.  Indeed,  he  could  not  keep  himself 
away.  He  dreamed  of  that  soft  hand  which  he  had  kissed 
so  often,  and  of  that  imperial  brow  which  his  lips  had  once 
pressed,  and  he  then  dreamed  also  of  further  favours. 

And  Mr.  Thorne  was  there  also.  It  was  the  first  visit  he 
had  ever  paid  to  the  signora,  and  he  made  it  not  without  due 
preparation.  Mr.  Thorne  was  a  gentleman  usually  precise  in 
his  dress,  and  prone  to  make  the  most  of  himself  in  an  un- 
pretending way.  The  grey  hairs  in  his  whiskers  were  elim- 
inated perhaps  once  a  month ;  those  on  his  head  were  soft- 
ened by  a  mixture  which  we  will  not  call  a  dye ;  it  was  only 
a  wash.  His  tailor  lived  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  his  boot- 
maker at  the  corner  of  that  street  and  Piccadilly.  He  was 
particular  in  the  article  of  gloves,  and  the  getting  up  of  his 
shirts  was  a  matter  not  lightly  thought  of  in  the  Ullathorne 
laundry.     On  the  occasion  of  the  present  visit  he  had  rather 

456 


A    PARTING    INTERVIEW. 

overdone  his  usual  efforts,  and  caused  some  little  uneasiness 
to  his  sister,  who  had  not  hitherto  received  very  cordially  the 
proposition  for  a  lengthened  visit  from  the  signora  at  Ulla- 
thorne. 

There  were  others  also  there — young  men  about  the  city 
who  had  not  much  to  do,  and  who  were  induced  by  the  lady's 
charms  to  neglect  that  little ;  but  all  gave  way  to  Mr.  Thorne, 
who  was  somewhat  of  a  grand  signior,  as  a  country  gentle- 
man always  is  in  a  provincial  city. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thorne,  this  is  so  kind  of  you !"  said  the  signora. 
"You  promised  to  come ;  but  I  really  did  not  expect  it.  I 
thought  you  country  gentlemen  never  kept  your  pledges." 

"Oh,  yes,  sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Thorne,  looking  rather 
sheepish,  and  making  his  salutations  a  little  too  much  in  the 
style  of  the  last  century. 

"You  deceive  none  but  your  consti — stit — stit;  what  do 
you  call  the  people  that  carry  you  about  in  chairs  and  pelt 
you  with  eggs  and  apples  when  they  make  you  a  member  of 
Parliament  ?" 

"One  another  also,  sometimes,  signora,"  said  Mr.  Slope, 
with  a  deanish  sort  of  smirk  on  his  face.  "Country  gentle- 
men do  deceive  one  another  sometimes,  don't  they,  Mr. 
Thorne?" 

Mr.  Thorne  gave  him  a  look  which  undeaned  him  com- 
pletely for  the  moment;  but  he  soon  remembered  his  high 
hopes,  and  recovering  himself  quickly,  sustained  his  probable 
coming  dignity  by  a  laugh  at  Mr.  Thome's  expense. 

"I  never  deceive  a  lady,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mr.  Thorne; 
"especially  when  the  gratification  of  my  own  wishes  is  so 
strong  an  inducement  to  keep  me  true,  as  it  now  is." 

Mr.  Thorne  went  on  thus  awhile  with  antediluvian  grim- 
aces and  compliments  which  he  had  picked  up  from  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  and  the  signora  at  every  grimace  and 
at  every  bow  smiled  a  little  smile  and  bowed  a  little  bow. 
Mr.  Thorne,  however,  was  kept  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch,  for  the  new  dean  sat  in  the  seat  of  honour  near  the 
table.  Mr.  Arabin  the  while  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  his  coat  tails  under  his  arms,  gazing  at  her  with  all 
his  eyes — not  quite  in  vain,  for  every  now  and  again  a  glance 
came  up  at  him,  bright  as  a  meteor  out  of  heaven. 

457 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thorne,  you  promised  to  let  me  introduce  my 
little  girl  to  you.  Can  you  spare  a  moment? — will  you  see 
her  now?" 

Mr.  Thorne  assured  her  that  he  could,  and  would  see  the 
young  lady  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life.  "Mr.  Slope, 
might  I  trouble  you  to  ring  the  bell?"  said  she;  and  when 
Mr.  Slope  got  up  she  looked  at  Mr.  Thorne  and  pointed  to 
the  chair.  Mr.  Thorne,  however,  was  much  too  slow  to  un- 
derstand her,  and  Mr.  Slope  would  have  recovered  his  seat 
had  not  the  signora,  who  never  chose  to  be  unsuccessful, 
somewhat  summarily  ordered  him  out  of  it. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Slope,  I  must  ask  you  to  let  Mr.  Thorne  sit  here 
just  for  a  moment  or  two.  I  am  sure  you  will  pardon  me. 
We  can  take  a  liberty  with  you  this  week.  Next  week,  you 
know,  when  you  move  into  the  dean's  house,  we  shall  all  be 
afraid  of  you." 

Mr.  Slope,  with  an  air  of  much  indifference,  rose  from  his 
seat,  and,  walking  into  the  next  room,  became  greatly  inter- 
ested in  Mrs.  Stanhope's  worsted  work. 

And  then  the  child  was  brought  in.  She  was  a  little  girl, 
about  eight  years  of  age,  like  her  mother,  only  that  her  enor- 
mous eyes  were  black,  and  her  hair  quite  jet.  Her  com- 
plexion, too,  was  very  dark,  and  bespoke  her  foreign  blood. 
She  was  dressed  in  the  most  outlandish  and  extravagant  way 
in  which  clothes  could  be  put  on  a  child's  back.  She  had 
great  bracelets  on  her  naked  little  arms,  a  crimson  fillet  braid- 
ed with  gold  round  her  head,  and  scarlet  shoes  with  high 
heels.  Her  dress  was  all  flounces,  and  stuck  out  from  her 
as  though  the  object  were  to  make  it  lie  off  horizontally  from 
her  little  hips.  It  did  not  nearly  cover  her  knees ;  but  this 
was  atoned  for  by  a  loose  pair  of  drawers,  which  seemed 
made  throughout  of  lace ;  then  she  had  on  pink  silk  stock- 
ings. It  was  thus  that  the  last  of  the  Neros  was  habitually 
dressed  at  the  hour  when  visitors  were  wont  to  call. 

"Julia,  my  love,"  said  the  mother, — Julia  was  ever  a  fa- 
vourite name  with  the  ladies  of  that  family.  "Julia,  my  love, 
come  here.  I  was  telling  you  about  the  beautiful  party  poor 
mamma  went  to.  This'  is  Mr.  Thorne ;  will  you  give  him  a 
kiss,  dearest?" 

Julia  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  as  she  did  to  all  her 

458 


'  A    PARTING    INTERVIEW. 

mother's  visitors ;  and  then  Mr.  Thorne  found  that  he  had 
got  her,  and,  which  was  much  more  terrific  to  him,  all  her 
finery,  into  his  arms.  The  lace  and  starch  crumpled  against 
his  waistcoat  and  trowsers,  the  greasy  black  curls  hung  upon 
his  cheek,  and  one  of  the  bracelet  clasps  scratched  his  ear. 
He  did  not  at  all  know  how  to  hold  so  magnificent  a  lady, 
nor  holding  her  what  to  do  with  her.  However,  he  had  on 
other  occasions  been  compelled  to  fondle  little  nieces  and 
nephews,  and  now  set  about  the  task  in  the  mode  he  always 
had  used. 

"Diddle,  diddle,  diddle,  diddle,"  said  he,  putting  the  child 
on  one  knee,  and  working  away  with  it  as  though  he  were 
turning  a  knife-grinder's  wheel  with  his  foot. 

"Mamma,  mamma,"  said  Julia,  crossly,  "I  don't  want  to  be 
diddle  diddled.     Let  me  go,  you  naughty  old  man,  you." 

Poor  Mr.  Thorne  put  the  child  down  quietly  on  the  ground, 
and  drew  back  his  chair;  Mr.  Slope,  who  had  returned  to 
the  pole  star  that  attracted  him,  laughed  aloud;  Mr.  Arabin 
winced  and  shut  his  eyes ;  and  the  signora  pretended  not  to 
hear  her  daughter. 

"Go  to  Aunt  Charlotte,  lovey,"  said  the  mamma,  "and  ask 
her  if  it  is  not  time  for  you  to  go  out." 

But  little  Miss  Julia,  though  she  had  not  exactly  liked  the 
nature  of  Mr.  Thome's  attention,  was  accustomed  to '  be 
played  with  by  gentlemen,  and  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  be- 
ing sent  so  soon  to  her  aunt. 

"Julia,  go  when  I  tell  you,  my  dear."  But  Julia  still  went 
pouting  about  the  room.  "Charlotte,  do  come  and  take  her," 
said  the  signora.  "She  must  go  out ;  and  the  days  get  so 
short  now."  And  thus  ended  the  much-talked-of  interview 
between  Mr.  Thorne  and  the  last  of  the  Neros. 

Mr.  Thorne  recovered  from  the  child's  crossness  sooner 
than  from  Mr.  Slope's  laughter.  He  could  put  up  with  be- 
ing called  an  old  man  by  an  infant,  but  he  did  not  like  to  be 
laughed  at  by  the  bishop's  chaplain,  even  though  that  chap- 
lain was  about  to  become  a  dean.  He  said  nothing,  but  he 
showed  plainly  enough  that  he  was  angry. 

The  signora  was  ready  enough  to  avenge  him.  "Mr. 
Slope,"  said  she,  "I  hear  that  you  are  triumphing  on  all 
sides." 

459 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS.    ■ 

"How  so?"  said  he,  smiling.  He  did  not  dislike  being 
talked  to  about  the  deanery,  though,  of  course,  he  strongly 
denied  the  imputation. 

"You  carry  the  day  both  in  love  and  war."  Mr.  Slope 
hereupon  did  not  look  quite  so  satisfied  as  he  had 
done. 

"Mr.  Arabin,"  continued  the  signora,  "don't  you  think  Mr. 
Slope  is  a  very  lucky  man?" 

"Not  more  so  than  he  deserves,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr. 
Arabin. 

"Only  think,  Mr.  Thorne,  he  is  to  be  our  new  dean ;  of 
course  we  all  know  that." 

"Indeed,  signora,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  "we  all  know  nothing 
about  it.     I  can  assure  you  I  myself " 

"He  is  to  be  the  new  dean — there  is  no  manner  of  doubt  of 
it,  Mr.  Thorne." 

"Hum!"  said  Mr.  Thorne. 

"Passing  over  the  heads  of  old  men  hke  my  father  and 
Archdeacon  Grantly " 

"Oh— oh !"  said  Mr.  Slope. 

"The  archdeacon  would  not  accept  it,"  said  Mr.  Arabin; 
whereupon  Mr.  Slope  smiled  abominably,  and  said,  as  plainly 
as  a  look  could  speak,  that  the  grapes  were  sour. 

"Going  over  all  our  heads,"  continued  the  signora ;  "for,  of 
course,  I  consider  myself  one  of  the  chapter." 

"If  I  am  ever  dean,"  said  Mr.  Slope — "that  is,  were  I  ever 
to  become  so,  I  should  glory  in  such  a  canoness." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Slope,  stop ;  I  haven't  half  done.  There  is  an- 
other canoness  for  you  to  glory  in.  Mr.  Slope  is  not  only  to 
have  the  deanery,  but  a  wife  to  put  in  it." 

Mr.  Slope  again  looked  disconcerted. 

"A  wife  with  a  large  fortune  too.  It  never  rains  but  it 
pours,  does  it,  Mr.  Thorne?" 

"No,  never,"  said  Mr.  Thorne,  who  did  not  quite  relish 
talking  about  Mr.  Slope  and  his  affairs. 

"When  will  it  be,  Mr.  Slope?" 

"When  will  what  be?"  said  he. 

"Oh !  we  know  when  the  affair  of  the  dean  will  be :  a  week 
will  settle  that.  The  new  hat,  I  have  no  doubt,  has  been  al- 
ready ordered.     But  when  will  the  marriage  come  off?" 

460 


A    PARTING   INTERVIEW. 

"Do  you  mean  mine  or  Mr.  Arabin's?"  said  he,  striving  to 
be  facetious. 

"Well,  just  then  I  meant  yours,  though,  perhaps,  after  all, 
Mr.  Arabin's  may  be  first.  But  we  know  nothing  of  him. 
He  is  too  close  for  any  of  us.  Now  all  is  open  and  above 
board  with  you;  which,  by  the  bye,  Mr.  Arabin,  I  beg  to  tell 
you  I  like  much  the  best.  He  who  runs  can  read  that  Mr. 
Slope  is  a  favoured  lover.  Come,  Mr.  Slope,  when  is  the 
widow  to  be  made  Mrs.  Dean  ?" 

To  Mr.  Arabin  this  badinage  was  peculiarly  painful ;  and 
yet  he  could  not  tear  himself  away  and  leave  it.  He  be- 
lieved, still  believed  with  that  sort  of  belief  which  the  fear 
of  a  thing  engenders,  that  Mrs.  Bold  would  probably  become 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Slope.  Of  Mr.  Slope's  little  adventure  in 
the  garden  he  knew  nothing.  For  aught  he  knew,  Mr.  Slope 
might  have  had  an  adventure  of  quite  a  different  character. 
He  might  have  thrown  himself  at  the  widow's  feet,  been 
accepted,  and  then  returned  to  town  a  jolly,  thriving  wooer. 
The  signora's  jokes  were  bitter  enough  to  Mr.  Slope,  but 
they  were  quite  as  bitter  to  Mr.  Arabin.  He  still  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  fire-place  with  his  hands  in  his  trowsers 
pockets. 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Slope,  don't  be  so  bashful,"  continued 
the  signora.  "We  all  know  that  you  proposed  to  the  lady 
the  other  day  at  Ullathorne.  Tell  us  with  what  words  she 
accepted  you.  Was  it  with  a  simple  *y^s,'  or  with  two  'no 
no's,'  which  make  an  affirmative  ?  or  did  silence  give  consent  ? 
or  did  she  speak  out  with  that  spirit  which  so  well  becomes 
a  widow,  and  say  openly,  'By  my  troth,  sir,  you  shall  make 
me  Mrs.  Slope  as  soon  as  it  is  your  pleasure  to  do  so  ?'  " 

Mr.  Slope  had  seldom  in  his  life  felt  himself  less  at  his 
ease.  There  sat  Mr.  Thorne,  laughing  silently.  There 
stood  his  old  antagonist.  Mr.  Arabin.  gazing  at  him  with  all 
his  eyes.  There  round  the  door  between  the  two  rooms  were 
clustered  a  little  group  of  people,  including  Miss  Stanhope 
and  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Gray  and  Green,  all  listening  to  his 
discomfiture.  He  knew  that  it  depended  solely  on  his  own 
wit  whether  or  no  he  could  throw  the  joke  back  upon  the 
lady.  He  knew  that  it  stood  him  to  do  so  if  he  possiblv 
could;  but  he  had  not  a  word.     "'Tis  conscience  that  makes 

461 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

cowards  of  us  all."  He  felt  on  his  cheek  the  sharp  points  of 
Eleanor's  fingers,  and  did  not  know  who  might  have  seen  the 
blow,  who  might  have  told  the  tale  to  this  pestilent  woman 
who  took  such  delight  in  jeering  him.  He  stood  there,  there- 
fore, red  as  a  carbuncle  and  mute  as  a  fish ;  grinning  just 
sufficiently  to  show  his  teeth ;  an  object  of  pity. 

But  the  signora  had  no  pity;  she  knew  nothing  of  mercy. 
Her  present  object  was  to  put  Mr.  Slope  down,  and  she  was 
determined  to  do  it  thoroughly,  now  that  she  had  him  in  her 
power. 

"What,  Mr.  Slope,  no  answer?  Why  it  can't  possibly  be 
that  the  woman  has  been  fool  enough  to  refuse  you?  She 
can't  surely  be  looking  out  after  a  bishop.  But  I  see  how  it 
is,  Mr.  Slope.  Widows  are  proverbially  cautious.  You 
should  have  let  her  alone  till  the  new  hat  was  on  your  head ; 
till  you  could  show  her  the  key  of  the  deanery." 

"Signora,"  said  he  at  last,  trying  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  dig- 
nified reproach,  "you  really  permit  yourself  to  talk  on  sol- 
emn subjects  in  a  very  improper  way." 

"Solemn  subjects — what  solemn  subject?  Surely  a  dean's 
hat  is  not  such  a  solemn  subject." 

"I  have  no  aspirations  such  as  those  you  impute  to  me. 
Perhaps  you  will  drop  the  subject." 

"Oh  certainly,  Mr.  Slope ;  but  one  word  first.  Go  to  her 
again  with  the  prime  minister's  letter  in  your  pocket.  I'll 
wager  my  shawl  to  your  shovel  she  does  not  refuse  you  then." 

"I  must  say,  signora,  that  I  think  you  are  speaking  of  the 
lady  in  a  very  unjustifiable  manner." 

"And  one  other  piece  of  advice,  Mr.  Slope;  I'll  only  oflfer 
you  one  other;"  and  then  she  commenced  singing — 

"It's  gude  to  be  merry  and  wise,  Mr.  Slope; 

It's  gude  to  be  honest  and  true; 
It's  gude  to  be  off  with  the  old  love — Mr.  Slope, 
Before  you  are  on  with  the  new. — 

Ha,  ha,  ha !" 
And  the  signora,  throwing  herself  back  on  her  sofa,  laughed 
merrily.     She  little  recked  how  those  who  heard  her  would, 
in  their  own  imaginations,  fill  up  the  little  history  of  Mr. 
Slope's  first  love.     She  little  cared  that  some  among  them 

462 


THE    DEAN    ELECT. 

might  attribute  to  her  the  honour  of  his  early  admiration. 
She  was  tired  of  Mr.  Slope  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him; 
she  had  ground  for  anger  with  him,  and  she  chose  to  be  re- 
venged. 

How  Mr.  Slope  got  out  of  that  room  he  never  himself 
knew.  He  did  succeed  ultimately,  and  probably  with  some 
assistance,  in  getting  his  hat  and  escaping  into  the  air.  At 
last  his  love  for  the  signora  was  cured.  Whenever  he  again 
thought  of  her  in  his  dreams,  it  was  not  as  of  an  angel  with 
azure  wings.  He  connected  her  rather  with  fire  and  brim- 
stone, and  though  he  could  still  believe  her  to  be  a  spirit,  he 
banished  her  entirely  out  of  heaven,  and  found  a  place  for 
her  among  the  infernal  gods.  When  he  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance, as  he  not  seldom  did,  the  two  women  to  whom  he  had 
attached  himself  in  Barchester,  the  pre-eminent  place  in  his 
soul's  hatred  was  usually  allotted  to  the  signora. 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 


THE   DEAN    ELECT. 


DURING  the  entii-e  next  week  Barchester  was  ignorant 
who  was  to  be  its  new  dean  on  Sunday  morning. 
Mr.  Slope  was  decidedly  the  favourite ;  but  he  did  not  show 
himself  in  the  cathedral,  and  then  he  sank  a  point  or  two 
in  the  betting.  On  Monday,  he  got  a  scolding  from  the 
bishop  in  the  hearing  of  the  servants,  and  down  he  went  till 
nobody  would  have  him  at  any  price ;  but  on  Tuesday  he  re- 
ceived a  letter,  in  an  official  cover,  marked  private,  by  which 
he  fully  recovered  his  place  in  the  public  favour.  On 
Wednesday,  he  was  said  to  be  ill,  and  that  did  not  look  well ; 
but  on  Thursday  morning  he  went  down  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion, with  a  very  jaunty  air;  and  when  it  was  ascertained 
that  he  had  taken  a  first-class  ticket  for  London,  there  was  no 
longer  any  room  for  doubt  on  the  matter. 

While  matters  were  in  this  state  of  ferment  at  Barchester, 
there  was  not  much  mental  comfort  at  Plumstead.  Our 
friend  the  archdeacon  had  many  grounds  for  inward  grief. 
He  was  much  displeased  at  the  result  of  Dr.  Gwynne's  diplo- 

463 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

matic  mission  to  the  palace,  and  did  not  even  scruple  to  say 
to  his  wife  that  had  he  gone  himself,  he  would  have  man- 
aged the  affair  much  better.  His  wife  did  not  agree  with 
him,  but  that  did  not  mend  the  matter. 

Mr,  Quiverful's  appointment  to  the  hospital  was,  however, 
a  fait  accompli,  and  Mr.  Harding's  acquiescence  in  that  ap- 
pointment was  not  less  so.  Nothing  would  induce  Mr. 
Harding  to  make  a  public  appeal  against  the  bishop;  and  the 
Master  of  Lazarus  quite  approved  of  his  not  doing  so. 

"I  don't  know  what  has  come  to  the  Master,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon over  and  over  again.  "He  used  to  be  ready  enough 
to  stand  up  for  his  order." 

"My  dear  archdeacon,"  Mrs.  Grantly  would  say  in  reply, 
"what  is  the  use  of  always  fighting  ?  I  really  think  the  Mas- 
ter is  right."  The  Master,  however,  had  taken  steps  of  his 
own,  of  which  neither  the  archdeacon  nor  his  wife  knew 
anything. 

Then  Mr.  Slope's  successes  were  henbane  to  Dr.  Grantly ; 
and  Mrs.  Bold's  improprieties  were  as  bad.  What  would  be 
all  the  world  to  Archdeacon  Grantly  if  Mr.  Slope  should  be- 
come Dean  of  Barchester  and  marry  his  wife's  sister!  He 
talked  of  it,  and  talked  of  it  till  he  was  nearly  ill.  Mrs. 
Grantly  almost  wished  that  the  marriage  were  done  and  over, 
so  that  she  might  hear  no  more  about  it. 

And  there  was  yet  another  ground  of  misery  which  cut 
him  to  the  quick,  nearly  as  closely  as  either  of  the  others. 
That  paragon  of  a  clergyman,  whom  he  had  bestowed  upon 
St.  Ewold's,  that  college  friend  of  whom  he  had  boasted  so 
loudly,  that  ecclesiastical  knight  before  whose  lance  Mr.  Slope 
was  to  fall  and  bite  the  dust,  that  worthy  bulwark  of  the 
church  as  it  should  be,  that  honoured  representative  of  Ox- 
ford's best  spirit,  was — so  at  least  his  wife  had  told  him  half 
a  dozen  times — misconducting  himself ! 

Nothing  had  been  seen  of  Mr.  Arabin  at  Plumstead  for 
the  last  week,  but  a  good  deal  had.  unfortunately,  been  heard 
of  him.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Grantly  had  found  herself  alone 
with  the  archdeacon,  on  the  evening  of  the  Ullathorne  party, 
she  had  expressed  herself  verv  forciblv  as  to  Mr.  Arabin's 
conduct  on  that  occasion.  He  had.  she  declared,  looked  and 
acted  and  talked  very  unlike  a  decent  parish  clergyman.     At 

464 


THE   DEAN    ELECT. 

first  the  archdeacon  had  laughed  at  this,  and  assured  her  that 
she  need  not  trouble  herself ;  that  Mr.  Arabin  would  be  found 
to  be  quite  safe.  But  by  degrees  he  began  to  find  that  his 
wife's  eyes  had  been  sharper  than  his  own.  Other  people 
coupled  the  signora's  name  with  that  of  Mr.  Arabin.  The 
meagre  little  prebendary  who  lived  in  the  close,  told  him  to  a 
nicety  how  often  Mr.  Arabin  had  visited  at  Dr.  Stanhope's, 
and  how  long  he  had  remained  on  the  occasion  of  each  visit. 
He  had  asked  after  Mr.  Arabin  at  the  cathedral  library,  and 
an  officious  little  vicar  choral  had  offered  to  go  and  see 
whether  he  could  be  found  at  Dr.  Stanhope's.  Rumour, 
when  she  has  contrived  to  sound  the  first  note  on  her  trum- 
pet, soon  makes  a  loud  peal  and  audible  enough.  It  was  too 
clear  that  Mr.  Arabin  had  succumbed  to  the  Italian  woman, 
and  that  the  archdeacon's  credit  would  sufifer  fearfully  if 
something  were  not  done  to  rescue  the  brand  from  the  burn- 
ing. Besides,  to  give  the  archdeacon  his  due,  he  was  really 
attached  to  Mr.  Arabin,  and  grieved  greatly  at  his  back- 
sliding. 

They  were  sitting,  talking  over  their  sorrows,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room before  dinner  on  the  day  after  Mr.  Slope's  depart- 
ure for  London ;  and  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Grantly  spoke  out 
her  mind  freely.  She  had  opinions  of  her  own  about  parish 
clergymen,  and  now  thought  it  right  to  give  vent  to  them. 
"If  you  would  have  been  led  by  me,  archdeacon,  you  would 
never  have  put  a  bachelor  into  St.  Ewold's." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  all  bachelor 
clergymen  misbehave  themselves." 

"I  don't  know  that  clergymen  are  so  much  better  than 
other  men,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "It's  all  very  well  with  a  cu- 
rate whom  you  have  under  your  own  eye,  and  whom  you  can 
get  rid  of  if  he  persists  in  improprieties." 

"But  Mr.  Arabin  was  a  fellow,  and  couldn't  have  had  a 
wife." 

"Then  I  would  have  found  some  one  who  could." 
"But,  my  dear,  are  fellows  never  to  get  livings  ?" 
"Yes,  to  be  sure  they  are,  when  they  get  engaged.     I  never 
would  put  a  young  man  into  a  living  unless  he  were  married, 
or  engaged  to  be  married.     Now  here  is  Mr.  Arabin.     The 
whole  responsibility  lies  upon  vou." 
»o  465 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"There  is  not  at  this  moment  a  clergyman  in  all  Oxford 
more  respected  for  morals  and  conduct  than  Arabin." 

"Oh,  Oxford!"  said  the  lady,  with  a  sneer.  "What  men 
choose  to  do  at  Oxford,  nobody  ever  hears  of.  A  man  may 
do  very  well  at  Oxford  who  would  bring  disgrace  on  a  par- 
ish ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Arabin 
is  just  such  a  man." 

The  archdeacon  groaned  deeply,  but  he  had  no  further  an- 
swer to  make. 

"You  really  must  speak  to  him,  archdeacon.  Only  think 
what  the  Thornes  will  say  if  they  hear  that  their  parish 
clergyman  spends  his  whole  time  philandering  with  this 
woman." 

The  archdeacon  groaned  again.  He  was  a  courageous 
man,  and  knew  well  enough  how  to  rebuke  the  younger 
clergymen  of  the  diocese,  when  necessary.  But  there  was 
that  about  Mr.  Arabin  which  made  the  doctor  fear  that  it 
would  be  very  difificult  to  rebuke  him  with  good  effect. 

"You  can  advise  him  to  find  a  wife  for  himself,  and  he 
will  understand  well  enough  what  that  means,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

The  archdeacon  had  nothing  for  it  but  groaning.  There 
was  Mr.  Slope ;  he  was  going  to  be  made  dean ;  he  was  going 
to  take  a  wife ;  he  was  about  to  achieve  respectability  and 
wealth;  an  excellent  family  mansion,  and  a  family  carriage; 
he  would  soon  be  among  the  comfortable  elite  of  the  eccle- 
siastical world  of  Barchester;  whereas  his  own  protege,  the 
true  scion  of  the  true  church,  by  whom  he  had  sworn,  would 
be  still  but  a  poor  vicar,  and  that  with  a  very  indifferent  char- 
acter for  moral  conduct !  It  might  be  all  very  well  recom- 
mending Mr.  Arabin  to  marry,  but  how  would  Mr.  Arabin 
when  married  support  a  wife ! 

Things  were  ordering  themselves  thus  in  Plumstead  draw- 
ing-room when  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Grantly  were  disturbed  in  their 
sweet  discourse  by  the  quick  rattle  of  a  carriage  and  pair  of 
horses  on  the  gravel  sweep.  The  sound  was  not  that  of  visi- 
tors, whose  private  carriages  are  generally  brought  up  to 
country-house  doors  with  demure  propriety,  but  betokened 
rather  the  advent  of  some  person  or  persons  who  were  in  a 
hurry  to  reach  the  house,  and  had  no  intention  of  immediately 

466 


THE    DEAN    ELECT. 

leaving  it.  Guests  invited  to  stay  a  week,  and  who  were  con- 
scious of  arriving  after  the  first  dinner  bell,  would  probably 
approach  in  such  a  manner.  So  might  arrive  an  attorney 
with  the  news  of  a  granduncle's  death,  or  a  son  from  college 
with  all  the  fresh  honours  of  a  double  first.  No  one  would 
have  had  himself  driven  up  to  the  door  of  a  country  house 
in  such  a  manner  who  had  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  own 
right  to  force  an  entry. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  looking  at  her  husband. 

"Who  on  earth  can  it  be?"  said  the  archdeacon  to  his  wife. 
He  then  quietly  got  up  and  stood  with  the  drawing-room 
door  open  in  his  hand.     "Why,  it's  your  father !" 

It  was  indeed  Mr.  Harding,  and  Mr.  Harding  alone.  He 
had  come  by  himself  in  a  post-chaise  with  a  couple  of  horses 
from  Barchester,  arriving  almost  after  dark,  and  evidently 
full  of  news.  His  visits  had  usually  been  made  in  the  quiet- 
est manner ;  he  had  rarely  presumed  to  come  without  notice, 
and  had  always  been  driven  up  in  a  modest  old  green  fly, 
with  one  horse,  that  hardly  made  itself  heard  as  it  crawled 
up  to  the  hall  door. 

"Good  gracious.  Warden,  is  it  you?"  said  the  archdeacon, 
forgetting  in  his  surprise  the  events  of  the  last  few  years. 
"But  come  in ;  nothing  the  matter,  I  hope  ?" 

"We  are  very  glad  you  are  come,  papa,"  said  his  daughter. 
"I'll  go  and  get  your  room  ready  at  once." 

"I  an't  warden,  archdeacon,"  said  Mr.  Harding.  "Mr. 
Quiverful  is  warden." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  archdeacon,  petulantly. 
"I  forgot  all  about  it  at  the  moment.  Is  anything  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Don't  go  this  moment,  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Harding;  "I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 

"The  dinner  bell  will  ring  in  five  minutes,"  said  she. 

"Will  it?"  said  Mr.  Harding.  "Then,  perhaps,  I  had  bet- 
ter wait."  He  was  big  with  news  which  he  had  come  to  tell, 
but  which  he  knew  could  not  be  told  without  much  discus- 
sion. He  had  hurried  away  to  Plumstead  as  fast  as  two  horses 
could  bring  him ;  and  now,  finding  himself  there,  he  was  will- 
ing to  accept  the  reprieve  which  dinner  would  give  him. 

"If  you  have  anything  of  moment  to  tell  us,"  said  the  arch- 

467 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

deacon,  "pray  let  us  hear  it  at  once.     Has  Eleanor  gone  off  ?" 

"No,  she  has  not,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  with  a  look  of  great 
displeasure. 

"Has  Slope  been  made  dean?" 

"No,  he  has  not;  but—" 

"But  what?"  said  the  archdeacon,  who  was  becoming  very 
impatient. 

"They  have — " 

"They  have  what  ?"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"They  have  offered  it  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  with  a 
modesty  which  almost  prevented  his  speaking. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  the  archdeacon,  and  sank  back  ex- 
hausted in  an  easy-chair. 

"My  dear,  dear  father,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  and  threw  her 
arms  round  her  father's  neck. 

"So  I  thought  I  had  better  come  out  and  consult  with  you 
at  once,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"Consult !"  shouted  the  archdeacon.  "But,  my  dear  Hard- 
ing, I  congratulate  you  with  my  whole  heart — with  my  whole 
heart;  I  do  indeed.  I  never  heard  anything  in  my  life  that 
gave  me  so  much  pleasure ;"  and  he  got  hold  of  both  his 
father-in-law's  hands,  and  shook  them  as  though  he  were  go- 
ing to  shake  them  off,  and  walked  round  and  round  the  room, 
twirling  a  copy  of  the  Jupiter  over  his  head,  to  show  his  ex- 
treme exultation. 

"But—"  began  Mr.  Harding. 

"But  me  no  buts,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "I  never  was  so 
happy  in  my  life.     It  was  just  the  proper  thing  to  do.     Upon 

my  honour  I'll  never  say  another  word  against  Lord  

the  longest  day  I  have  to  live." 

"That's  Dr.  Gwynne's  doing,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly,  who  greatly  liked  the  Master  of  Lazarus,  he  being 
an  orderly  married  man  with  a  large  family. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Oh,  papa,  I  am  so  truly  delighted !"  said  Mrs.  Grantly, 
getting  up  and  kissing  her  father. 

"But,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Harding. — It  was  all  in  vain 
that  he  strove  to  speak ;  nobody  would  listen  to  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Dean,"  said  the  archdeacon,  triumphing;  "the 
deanery  gardens  will  be  some  consolation   for  the  hospital 

468 


THE    DEAN    ELECT. 

elms.  Well,  poor  Quiverful !  I  won't  begrudge  him  his 
good  fortune  any  longer." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "Poor  woman,  she  has 
fourteen  children.  I  am  sure  1  am  very  glad  they  have 
got  it." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"I  would  give  twenty  pounds,"  said  the  archdeacon,  "to  see 
how  Mr.  Slope  will  look  when  he  hears  it."  The  idea  of  Mr. 
Slope's  discomfiture  formed  no  small  part  of  the  archdeacon's 
pleasure. 

At  last  Mr.  Harding  was  allowed  to  go  up-stairs  and  wash 
his  hands,  having,  in  fact,  said  very  little  of  all  that  he  had 
come  out  to  Plumstead  on  purpose  to  say.  Nor  could  any- 
thing more  be  said  till  the  servants  were  gone  after  dinner. 
The  joy  of  Dr.  Grantly  was  so  uncontrollable  that  he  could 
not  refrain  from  calling  his  father-in-law  Mr.  Dean  before 
the  men ;  and  therefore  it  was  soon  matter  of  discussion  in 
the  lower  regions  how  Mr,  Harding,  instead  of  his  daugh- 
ter's future  husband,  was  to  be  the  new  dean,  and  various 
were  the  opinions  on  the  matter.  The  cook  and  butler,  who 
were  advanced  in  years,  thought  that  it  was  just  as  it  should 
be;  but  the  footman  and  lady's  maid,  who  were  younger, 
thought  it  was  a  great  shame  that  Mr.  Slope  should  lose  his 
chance. 

"He's  a  mean  chap  all  the  same,"  said  the  footman ;  "and 
it  an't  along  of  him  that  I  says  so.  But  I  always  did  admire 
the  missus's  sister;  and  she'd  well  become  the  situation." 

While  these  were  the  ideas  down-stairs,  a  very  great  dif- 
ference of  opinion  existed  above.  As  soon  as  the  cloth  was 
drawn  and  the  wine  on  the  table,  Mr.  Harding  made  for 
himself  an  opportunity  of  speaking.  It  was,  however,  with 
much  inward  troubling  that  he  said : — 

"It's  very  kind  of  Lord ,  very  kind,  and  I  feel  it  deep- 
ly, most  deeply.     I  am,  I  confess,  gratified  by  the   offer — " 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"But,  all  the  same,  I  am  afraid  that  I  can't  accept  it." 

The  decanter  almost  fell  from  the  archdeacon's  hand  upon 
the  table ;  and  the  start  he  made  was  so  great  as  to  make  his 
wife  jump  up  from  her  chair.  Not  accept  the  deanship !  If 
it  really  ended  in  this,  there  would  be  no  longer  any  doubt 

469 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

that  his  father-in-law  was  demented.  The  question  now  was 
whether  a  clergyman  with  low  rank,  and  preferment  amount- 
ing to  less  than  200/.  a  year,  should  accept  high  rank,  1200/. 
a  year,  and  one  of  the  most  desirable  positions  which  his  pro- 
fession had  to  afford ! 

"What !"  said  the  archdeacon,  gasping  for  breath,  and 
staring  at  his  guest  as  though  the  violence  of  his  emotion 
had  almost  thrown  him  into  a  fit. 

"What !" 

"I  do  not  find  myself  fit  for  new  duties,"  urged  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. 

"New  duties !  what  duties  ?"  said  the  archdeacon,  with  un- 
intended sarcasm. 

"Oh,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "nothing  can  be  easier  than 
what  a  dean  has  to  do.  Surely  you  are  more  active  than  Dr. 
Trefoil." 

"He  won't  have  half  as  much  to  do  as  he  has  at  present," 
said  Dr.  Grantly. 

"Did  you  see  what  the  Jupiter  said  the  other  day  about 
young  men?" 

"Yes ;  and  I  saw  that  the  Jupiter  said  all  that  it  could  to 
induce  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Slope.  Perhaps  you  would 
wish  to  see  Mr.  Slope  made  dean." 

Mr.  Harding  made  no  reply  to  this  rebuke,  though  he  felt 
it  strongly.  He  had  not  come  over  to  Plumstead  to  have 
further  contention  with  his  son-in-law  about  Mr.  Slope,  so  he 
allowed  it  to  pass  by. 

"I  know  I  cannot  make  you  understand  my  feeling,"  he 
said,  "for  we  have  been  cast  in  dififerent  moulds.  I  may 
wish  that  I  had  your  spirit  and  energy  and  power  of  com- 
bating; but  I  have  not.  Every  day  that  is  added  to  my  life 
increases  my  wish  for  peace  and  rest." 

"And  where  on  earth  can  a  man  have  peace  and  rest  if  not 
in  a  deanery?"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"People  will  say  that  I  am  too  old  for  it." 

"Good  heavens !  people !  what  people  ?  What  need  you 
care  for  anv  people?" 

"But  I  think  myself  I  am  too  old  for  any  new  place." 

"Dear  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "men  ten  years  older  than 
you  are  appointed  to  new  situations  day  after  day." 

470 


THE   DEAN    ELECT. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "it  is  impossible  that  I  should  make 
you  understand  my  feelings,  nor  do  I  pretend  to  any  great 
virtue  in  the  matter.  The  truth  is,  I  want  the  force  of  char- 
acter which  might  enable  me  to  stand  against  the  spirit  of 
the  times.  The  call  on  all  sides  now  is  for  young  men,  and 
I  have  not  the  nerve  to  put  myself  in  opposition  to  the  de- 
mand. Were  the  Jupiter,  when  it  hears  of  my  appointment, 
to  write  article  after  article,  setting  forth  my  incompetency, 
I  am  sure  it  would  cost  me  my  reason.  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  bear  with  such  things,  you  will  say.  Well,  my  dear,  I 
own  that  I  ought.  But  I  feel  my  weakness,  and  I  know 
that  I  can't.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  know  no  more 
than  a  child  what  the  dean  has  to  do." 

"Pshaw !"  exclaimed  the  archdeacon. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  archdeacon :  don't  let  us  quarrel 
about  it,  Susan.  If  you  knew  how  keenly  I  feel  the  necessity 
of  having  to  disoblige  you  in  this  matter,  you  would  not  be 
angry  with  me." 

This  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  Dr.  Grantly.  Nothing  could 
possibly  have  suited  him  better  than  having  Mr.  Harding  in 
the  deanery.  Though  he  had  never  looked  down  on  Mr. 
Harding  on  account  of  his  recent  poverty,  he  did  fully  rec- 
ognise the  satisfaction  of  having  those  belonging  to  him  in 
comfortable  positions.  It  would  be  much  more  suitable  that 
Mr.  Harding  should  be  dean  of  Barchester  than  vicar  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  and  precentor  to  boot.  And  then  the  great  dis- 
comfiture of  that  arch  enemy  of  all  that  was  respectable  in 
Barchester,  of  that  new  low-church  clerical  parvenu  that  had 
fallen  amongst  them,  that  alone  would  be  worth  more,  al- 
most, than  the  situation  itself.  It  was  frightful  to  think  that 
such  unhoped-for  good  fortune  should  be  marred  by  the  ab- 
surd crotchets  and  unwholesome  hallucinations  by  which  Mr. 
Harding  allowed  himself  to  be  led  astray.  To  have  the  cup 
so  near  his  lips  and  then  to  lose  the  drinking  of  it,  was  more 
than  Dr.  Grantly  could  endure. 

And  yet  it  appeared  as  though  he  would  have  to  endure  it. 
In  vain  he  threatened  and  in  vain  he  coaxed.  Mr.  Harding 
did  not  indeed  speak  with  perfect  decision  of  refusing  the 
proffered  glory,  but  he  would  not  speak  with  anything  like 
decision  of  accepting  it.     When  pressed  again  and  again,  he 

471 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

would  again  and  again  allege  that  he  was  wholly  unfitted  to 
new  duties.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  archdeacon  tried  to  in- 
sinuate, though  he  could  not  plainly  declare,  that  there  were 
no  new  duties  to  perform.  It  was  in  vain  he  hinted  that  in 
all  cases  of  difficulty  he,  the  archdeacon,  was  willing  and  able 
to  guide  a  weak-minded  dean.  Mr.  Harding  seemed  to  have 
a  foolish  idea,  not  only  that  there  were  new  duties  to  do,  but 
that  no  one  should  accept  the  place  who  was  not  himself  pre- 
pared to  do  them. 

The  conference  ended  in  an  understanding  that  Mr.  Hard- 
ing should  at  once  acknowledge  the  letter  he  had  received 
from  the  minister's  private  secretary,  and  should  beg  that  he 
might  be  allowed  two  days  to  make  up  his  mind ;  and  that 
during  those  two  days  the  matter  should  be  considered. 

On  the  following  morning  the  archdeacon  was  to  drive 
Mr.  Harding  back  to  Barchester. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

MISS    THORNE    SHOWS    HER    TALENT    AT    MATCH-MAKING. 

ON  Mr.  Harding's  return  to  Barchester  from  Plumstead, 
which  was  effected  by  him  in  due  course  in  company 
with  the  archdeacon,  more  tidings  of  a  surprising  nature  met 
him.  He  was,  during  the  journey,  subjected  to  such  a 
weight  of  unanswerable  argument,  all  of  which  went  to  prove 
that  it  was  his  bounden  duty  not  to  interfere  with  the  pater- 
nal government  that  was  so  anxious  to  make  him  a  dean,  that 
when  he  arrived  at  the  chemist's  door  in  High  Street,  he 
hardly  knew  which  way  to  turn  himself  in  the  matter.  But, 
perplexed  as  he  was,  he  was  doomed  to  further  perplexity. 
He  found  a  note  there  from  his  daughter  begging  him  most 
urgently  to  come  to  her  immediately.  But  we  must  again 
go  back  a  little  in  our  story. 

Miss  Thorne  had  not  been  slow  to  hear  the  rumours  re- 
specting Mr.  Arabin,  which  had  so  much  disturbed  the  hap- 
piness of  Mrs.  Grantly.  And  she,  also,  was  unhappy  to  think 
that  her  parish  clergyman  should  be  accused  of  worshipping 
a  strange  goddess.     She,  also,  was  of  opinion,  that  rectors 

472 


MATCH-MAKING. 

and  vicars  should  all  be  married,  and  with  that  good-natured 
energy  which  was  characteristic  of  her,  she  put  her  wits  to 
work  to  find  a  fitting  match  for  Mr.  Arabin.  Mrs.  Grantly, 
in  this  difiiculty,  could  think  of  no  better  remedy  than  a  lec- 
ture from  the  archdeacon.  Miss  Thorne  thought  that  a 
young  lady,  marriageable,  and  with  a  dowry,  might  be  of 
more  efficacy.  In  looking  through  the  catalogue  of  her  un- 
married friends,  who  might  possibly  be  in  want  of  a  husband, 
and  might  also  be  fit  for  such  promotion  as  a  country  par- 
sonage aflFords,  she  could  think  of  no  one  more  eligible  than 
Mrs.  Bold ;  and,  consequently,  losing  no  time,  she  went  into 
Barchester  on  the  day  of  Mr.  Slope's  discomfiture,  the  same 
day  that  her  brother  had  had  his  interesting  interview  with 
the  last  of  the  Neros,  and  invited  Mrs.  Bold  to  bring  her 
nurse  and  baby  to  Ullathorne  and  make  them  a  protracted 
visit. 

Miss  Thorne  suggested  a  month  or  two,  intending  to  use 
her  influence  afterwards  in  prolonging  it  so  as  to  last  out  the 
winter,  in  order  that  Mr.  Arabin  might  have  an  opportunity 
of  becoming  fairly  intimate  with  his  intended  bride.  "We'll 
have  Mr.  Arabin  too,"  said  Miss  Thorne  to  herself ;  "and  be- 
fore the  spring  they'll  know  each  other;  and  in  twelve  or 
eighteen  months'  time,  if  all  goes  well,  Mrs.  Bold  will  be 
domiciled  at  St.  Ewold's ;"  and  then  the  kind-hearted  lady 
gave  herself  some  not  undeserved  praise  for  her  match-mak- 
ing genius. 

Eleanor  was  taken  a  little  by  surprise,  but  the  matter  end- 
ed in  her  promising  to  go  to  Ullathorne  for  at  any  rate  a 
week  or  two;  and  on  the  day  previous  to  that  on  which  her 
father  drove  out  to  Plumstead,  she  had  had  herself  driven 
out  to  Ullathorne. 

Miss  Thorne  would  not  perplex  her  with  her  embryo  lord 
on  that  same  evening,  thinking  that  she  would  allow  her  a 
few  hours  to  make  herself  at  home;  but  on  the  following 
morning  Mr.  Arabin  arrived.  "And  now,"  said  Miss  Thorne 
to  herself,  "I  must  contrive  to  throw  them  in  each  other's 
way."  That  same  day,  after  dinner,  Eleanor,  with  an  as- 
sumed air  of  dignity  which  she  could  not  maintain,  with 
tears  that,  she  could  not  suppress,  with  a  flutter  which  she 
could  not  conquer,  and  a  joy  which  she  could  not  hide,  told 

473 


barchesteR  towers. 

Miss  Thorne  that  she  was  engaged  to  marry  Mr.  Arabin, 
and  that  it  behoved  her  to  get  back  home  to  Barchester  as 
quick  as  she  could. 

To  say  simply  that  Miss  Thorne  was  rejoiced  at  the  suc- 
cess of  the  scheme,  would  give  a  very  faint  idea  of  her  feel- 
ings on  the  occasion.  My  readers  may  probably  have 
dreamt  before  now  that  they  have  had  before  them  some 
terribly  long  walk  to  accomplish,  some  journey  of  twenty  or 
thirty  miles,  an  amount  of  labour  frightful  to  anticipate,  and 
that  immediately  on  starting  they  have  ingeniously  found 
some  accommodating  short  cut  which  has  brought  them  with- 
out fatigue  to  their  work's  end  in  five  minutes.  Miss 
Thome's  waking  feelings  were  somewhat  of  the  same  nature. 
My  readers  may  perhaps  have  to  do  with  children,  and  may 
on  some  occasion  have  promised  to  their  young  charges  some 
great  gratification  intended  to  come  off,  perhaps  at  the  end 
of  the  winter,  or  at  the  beginning  of  summer.  The  impatient 
juveniles,  however,  will  not  wait,  and  clamorously  demand 
their  treat  before  they  go  to  bed.  Miss  Thorne  had  a  sort 
of  feeling  that  her  children  were  equally  unreasonable.  She 
was  like  an  inexperienced  gunner,  who  has  ill  calculated  the 
length  of  the  train  that  he  has  laid.  The  gunpowder  ex- 
ploded much  too  soon,  and  poor  Miss  Thorne  felt  that  she 
was  blown  up  by  the  strength  of  her  own  petar. 

Miss  Thorne  had  had  lovers  of  her  own,  but  they  had  been 
gentlemen  of  old-fashioned  and  deliberate  habits.  Miss 
Thome's  heart  also  had  not  always  been  hard,  though  she 
was  still  a  virgin  spinster;  but  it  had  never  yielded  in  this 
way  at  the  first  assault.  She  had  intended  to  bring  together 
a  middle-aged,  studious  clergyman,  and  a  discreet  matron 
who  might  possibly  be  induced  to  marry  again ;  and  in  doing 
so  she  had  thrown  fire  among  tinder.  Well,  it  was  all  as  it 
should  be,  but  she  did  feel  perhaps  a  little  put  out  by  the  pre- 
cipitancy of  her  own  success ;  and  perhaps  a  little  vexed  at 
the  readiness  of  Mrs.  Bold  to  be  wooed. 

She  said,  however,  nothing  about  it  to  any  one,  and  as- 
cribed it  all  to  the  altered  manners  of  the  new  age.  Their 
mothers  and  grandmothers  were  perhaps  a  little  more  delib- 
erate ;  but  it  was  admitted  on  all  sides  that  things  were  con- 
ducted very  differently  now  than  in  former  times.     For  aught 

474 


MATCH-MAKING. 

Miss  Thorne  knew  of  the  matter,  a  couple  of  hours  might  be 
quite  sufficient  under  the  new  regime  to  complete  that  for 
which  she  in  her  ignorance  had  allotted  twelve  months. 

But  we  must  not  pass  over  the  wooing  so  cavalierly.  It 
has  been  told,  with  perhaps  tedious  accuracy,  how  Eleanor 
disposed  of  two  of  her  lovers  at  Ullathorne ;  and  it  must  also 
be  told  with  equal  accuracy,  and  if  possible  with  less  tedium, 
how  she  encountered  Mr.  Arabin. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  when  Eleanor  accepted  Miss 
Thome's  invitation,  she  remembered  that  Ullathorne  was  in 
the  parish  of  St.  Ewold's.  Since  her  interview  with  the  sig- 
nora  she  had  done  little  else  than  think  about  Mr.  Arabin, 
and  the  appeal  that  had  been  made  to  her.  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  believe  or  try  to  bring  herself  to  believe,  that 
what  she  had  been  told  was  untrue.  Think  of  it  how  she 
would,  she  could  not  but  accept  it  as  a  fact  that  Mr.  Arabin 
was  fond  of  her ;  and  then  when  she  went  further,  and  asked 
herself  the  question,  she  could  not  but  accept  it  as  a  fact  also 
that  she  was  fond  of  him.  If  it  were  destined  for  her  to  be 
the  partner  of  his  hopes  and  sorrows,  to  whom  could  she 
look  for  friendship  so  properly  as  to  Miss  Thorne?  This  in- 
vitation was  like  an  ordained  step  towards  the  fulfilment  of 
her  destiny,  and  when  she  also  heard  that  Mr.  Arabin  was 
expected  to  be  at  Ullathorne  on  the  following  day,  it  seemed 
as  though  all  the  world  were  conspiring  in  her  favour.  Well, 
did  she  not  deserve  it?  In  that  afifair  of  Mr.  Slope,  had  not 
all  the  world  conspired  against  her? 

She  could  not,  however,  make  herself  easy  and  at  home. 
When  in  the  evening  after  dinner  Miss  Thorne  expatiated  on 
the  excellence  of  Mr.  Arabin's  qualities,  and  hinted  that  any 
little  rumour  which  might  be  ill-naturedly  spread  abroad  con- 
cerning him  really  meant  nothing,  Mrs.  Bold  found  herself 
unable  to  answer.  When  Miss  Thorne  went  a  little  further 
and  declared  that  she  did  not  know  a  prettier  vicarage-house 
in  the  county  than  St.  Ewold's,  Mrs.  Bold,  remembering  the 
projected  bow-window  and  the  projected  priestess,  still  held 
her  tongue ;  though  her  ears  tingled  with  the  conviction  that 
all  the  world  knew  that  she  was  in  love  with  Mr.  Arabin. 
Well ;  what  would  that  matter  if  they  could  only  meet  and 
tell  each  other  what  each  now  longed  to  tell? 

475 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

And  they  did  meet.  Mr.  Arabin  came  early  in  the  day,  and 
found  the  two  ladies  together  at  work  in  the  drawing-room. 
Miss  Thorne,  who  had  she  known  all  the  truth  would  have 
vanished  into  air  at  once,  had  no  conception  that  her  imme- 
diate absence  would  be  a  blessing,  and  remained  chatting  with 
them  till  luncheon-time.  Mr.  Arabin  could  talk  about  noth- 
ing but  the  Signora  Neroni's  beauty,  would  discuss  no  people 
but  the  Stanhopes.  This  was  very  distressing  to  Eleanor, 
and  not  very  satisfactory  to  Miss  Thorne.  But  yet  there  was 
evidence  of  innocence  in  his  open  avowal  of  admiration. 

And  then  they  had  lunch,  and  then  Mr.  Arabin  went  out 
on  parish  duty,  and  Eleanor  and  Miss  Thome  were  left  to 
take  a  walk  together. 

"Do  you  think  the  Signora  Neroni  is  so  lovely  as  people 
say?"  Eleanor  asked  as  they  were  coming  home. 

"She  is  very  beautiful  certainly,  very  beautiful,"  Miss 
Thorne  answered ;  "but  I  do  not  know  that  any  one  considers 
her  lovely.  She  is  a  woman  all  men  would  like  to  look  at ; 
but  few  I  imagine  would  be  glad  to  take  her  to  their  hearths, 
even  were  she  unmarried  and  not  afflicted  as  she  is." 

There  was  some  little  comfort  in  this.  Eleanor  made  the 
most  of  it  till  she  got  back  to  the  house.  She  was  then  left 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  just  as  it  was  getting  dark 
Mr.  Arabin  came  in. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  October, 
and  Eleanor  was  sitting  in  the  window  to  get  the  advantage 
of  the  last  daylight  for  her  novel.  There  was  a  fire  in  the 
comfortable  room,  but  the  weather  was  not  cold  enough  to 
make  it  attractive ;  and  as  she  could  see  the  sun  set  from 
where  she  sat,  she  was  not  very  attentive  to  her  book. 

Mr.  Arabin  when  he  entered  stood  awhile  with  his  back 
to  the  fire  in  his  usual  way,  merely  uttering  a  few  common- 
place remarks  about  the  beauty  of  the  weather,  while  he 
plucked  up  courage  for  more  interesting  converse.  It  cannot 
probably  be  said  that  he  had  resolved  then  and  there  to  make 
an  offer  to  Eleanor.  Men  we  believe  seldom  make  such 
resolves.  Mr.  Slope  and  Mr.  Stanhope  had  done  so,  it  is 
true ;  but  gentlemen  generally  propose  without  any  absolutely 
defined  determination  as  to  their  doing  so.  Such  was  now 
the  case  with  Mr.  Arabin. 

476 


MATCH-MAKING. 

'■'It  is  a  lovely  sunset,"  said  Eleanor,  answering  him  on  the 
dreadfully  trite  subject  which  he  had  chosen. 

Mr.  Arabin  could  not  see  the  sunset  from  the  hearth-rug, 
so  he  had  to  go  close  to  her. 

"Very  lovely,"  said  he,  standing  modestly  so  far  away 
from  her  as  to  avoid  touching  the  flounces  of  her  dress. 
Then  it  appeared  that  he  had  nothing  further  to  say ;  so  after 
gazing  for  a  moment  in  silence  at  the  brightness  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  he  returned  to  the  fire. 

Eleanor  found  that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  herself  to 
commence  a  conversation.  In  the  first  place  she  could  find 
nothing  to  say ;  words,  which  were  generally  plenty  enough 
with  her,  would  not  come  to  her  relief.  And,  moreover,  do 
what  she  would,  she  could  hardly  prevent  herself  from 
crying. 

"Do  you  like  Ullathorne  ?"  said  Mr.  Arabin,  speaking  from 
the  safely  distant  position  which  he  had  assumed  on  the 
hearth-rug. 

"Yes,  indeed,  very  much !" 

"I  don't  mean  Mr.  and  Miss  Thorne.  I  know  you  like 
them;  but  the  style  of  the  house.  There  is  something  about 
old-fashioned  mansions,  built  as  this  is,  and  old-fashioned 
gardens,  that  to  me  is  especially  delightful." 

"I  like  everything  old-fashioned,"  said  Eleanor;  "old-fash- 
ioned things  are  so  much  the  honestest." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Arabin,  gently  laugh- 
ing. "That  is  an  opinion  on  which  very  much  may  be  said 
on  either  side.  It  is  strange  how  widely  the  world  is  divided 
on  a  subject  which  so  nearly  concerns  us  all,  and  which  is  so 
close  beneath  our  eyes.  Some  think  that  we  are  quickly 
progressing  towards  perfection,  while  others  imagine  that 
virtue  is  disappearing  from  the  earth." 

"And  you,  Mr.  Arabin,  what  do  you  think?"  said  Eleanor. 
She  felt  somewhat  surprised  at  the  tone  which  his  conversa- 
tion was  taking,  and  yet  she  was  relieved  at  his  saying  some- 
thing which  enabled  herself  to  speak  without  showing  her 
own  emotion. 

"What  do  I  think,  Mrs.  Bold?"  and  then  he  rumbled  his 
money  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets,  and  looked 
and  spoke  very  little  like  a  thriving  lover.     "It  is  the  bane  of 

477 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

my  life  that  on  important  subjects  I  acquire  no  fixed  opin- 
ion. I  think,  and  think,  and  go  on  thinking;  and  yet  my 
thoughts  are  running  ever  in  different  directions.  I  hardly 
know  whether  or  no  we  do  lean  more  confidently  than  our 
fathers  did  on  those  high  hopes  to  which  we  profess  to 
aspire." 

"I  think  the  world  grows  more  worldly  every  day,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"That  is  because  you  see  more  of  it  than  when  you  were 
younger.  But  we  should  hardly  judge  by  what  we  see, — 
we  see  so  very  very  little."  There  was  then  a  pause  for  a 
while,  during  which  Mr.  Arabin  continued  to  turn  over  his 
shillings  and  half-crowns.  "If  we  believe  in  Scripture,  we 
can  hardly  think  that  mankind  in  general  will  now  be  allowed 
to  retrograde." 

Eleanor,  whose  mind  was  certainly  engaged  otherwise  than 
on  the  general  state  of  mankind,  made  no  answer  to  this. 
She  felt  thoroughly  dissatisfied  with  herself.  She  could  not 
force  her  thoughts  away  from  the  topic  on  which  the  signora 
had  spoken  to  her  in  so  strange  a  way,  and  yet  she  knew  that 
she  could  not  converse  with  Mr.  Arabin  in  an  unrestrained 
natural  tone  till  she  did  so.  She  was  most  anxious  not  to 
show  to  him  any  special  emotion,  and  yet  she  felt  that  if  he 
looked  at  her  he  would  at  once  see  that  she  was  not  at  ease. 

But  he  did  not  look  at  her.  Instead  of  doing  so,  he  left 
the  fireplace  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
Eleanor  took  up  her  book  resolutely ;  but  she  could  not  read, 
for  there  was  a  tear  in  her  eye,  and  do  what  she  would  it  fell 
on  her  cheek.  When  Mr.  Arabin's  back  was  turned  to  her 
she  wiped  it  away;  but  another  was  soon  coursing  down  her 
face  in  its  place.  They  would  come ;  not  a  deluge  of  tears 
that  would  have  betrayed  her  at  once,  but  one  by  one,  single 
monitors.  Mr.  Arabin  did  not  observe  her  closely,  and  they 
passed  unseen. 

Mr.  Arabin,  thus  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  took  four 
or  five  turns  before  he  spoke  another  word,  and  Eleanor  sat 
equally  silent  with  her  face  bent  over  her  book.  She  was 
afraid  that  her  tears  would  get  the  better  of  her,  and  was 
preparing  for  an  escape  from  the  room,  when  Mr.  Arabin 
in  his  walk  stood  opposite  to  her.     He  did  not  come  close 

478 


MATCH-MAKING. 

up,  but  stood  exactly  on  the  spot  to  which  his  course  brought 
him,  and  then,  with  his  hands  under  his  coat  tails,  thus  made 
his  confession. 

"Mrs.  Bold,"  said  he,  "I  owe  you  retribution  for  a  great 
offence  of  which  I  have  been  guilty  toward  you."  Eleanor's 
heart  beat  so  that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  say  that  he 
had  never  been  guilty  of  any  offence.  So  Mr,  Arabin 
thus  went  on. 

"I  have  thought  much  of  it  since,  and  I  am  now  aware 
that  I  was  wholly  unwarranted  in  putting  to  you  a  question 
which  I  once  asked  you.  It  was  indelicate  on  my  part,  and 
perhaps  unmanly.  No  intimacy  which  may  exist  between 
myself  and  your  connection,  Dr.  Grantly,  could  justify  it. 
Nor  could  the  acquaintance  which  existed  between  our- 
selves." This  word  acquaintance  struck  cold  on  Eleanor's 
heart.  Was  this  to  be  her  doom  after  all  ?  "I  therefore 
think  it  right  to  beg  your  pardon  in  a  humble  spirit,  and  I 
now  do  so." 

What  was  Eleanor  to  say  to  him?  She  could  not  say 
much,  because  she  was  crying,  and  yet  she  must  say  some- 
thing. She  was  most  anxious  to  say  that  something  gra- 
ciously, kindly,  and  yet  not  in  such  a  manner  as  to  betray 
herself.  She  had  never  felt  herself  so  much  at  a  loss  for 
words. 

"Indeed  I  took  no  offence,  Mr.  Arabin." 

"Oh,  but  you  did !  And  had  you  not  done  so,  you  would 
not  have  been  yourself.  You  were  as  right  to  be  offended, 
as  I  was  wrong  so  to  offend  you.  I  have  not  forgiven  my- 
self, but  I  hope  to  hear  that  you  forgive  me." 

She  was  now  past  speaking  calmly,  though  she  still  con- 
tinued to  hide  her  tears,  and  Mr.  Arabin,  after  pausing  a 
moment  in  vain  for  her  reply,  was  walking  off  towards  the 
door.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  allow  him  to  go  unan- 
swered without  grievously  sinning  against  all  charity;  so, 
rising  from  her  seat,  she  gently  touched  his  arm  and  said : 
"Oh,  Mr.  Arabin,  do  not  go  till  I  speak  to  you !  I  do  for- 
give you.     You  know  that  I  forgive  you." 

He  took  the  hand  that  had  so  gently  touched  his  arm,  and 
then  gazed  into  her  face  as  if  he  would  peruse  there,  as 
though  written  in  a  book,  the  whole  future  destiny  of  his 

479 


BARCHESTER    TOWERS. 

life;  and  as  he  did  so,  there  was  a  sober  sad  seriousness  in 
his  own  countenance,  which  Eleanor  found  herself  unable  to 
sustain.  She  could  only  look  down  upon  the  carpet,  let  her 
tears  trickle  as  they  would,  and  leave  her  hand  within  his. 

It  was  but  for  a  minute  that  they  stood  so,  but  the  dura- 
tion of  that  minute  was  sufficient  to  make  it  ever  memorable 
to  them  both.  Eleanor  was  sure  now  that  she  was  loved. 
No  words,  be  their  eloquence  what  it  might,  could  be  more 
impressive  than  that  eager,  melancholy  gaze. 

Why  did  he  look  so  into  her  eyes  ?  Why  did  he  not  speak 
to  her?  Could  it  be  that  he  looked  for  her  to  make  the  first 
sign? 

And  he,  though  he  knew  but  little  of  women,  even  he  knew 
that  he  was  loved.  He  had  only  to  ask  and  it  would  be  all 
his  own,  that  inexpressible  loveliness,  those  ever  speaking 
but  yet  now  mute  eyes,  that  feminine  brightness  and  eager 
loving  spirit  which  had  so  attracted  him  since  first  he  had 
encountered  it  at  St.  Ewold's.  It  might,  must  all  be  his  own 
now.  On  no  other  supposition  was  it  possible  that  she  should 
allow  her  hand  to  remain  thus  clasped  within  his  own.  He 
had  only  to  ask.  Ah !  but  that  was  the  difficulty.  Did  a 
minute  suffice  for  all  this?  Nay,  perhaps  it  might  be  more 
than  a  minute. 

"Mrs.  Bold — "  at  last  he  said,  and  then  stopped  himself. 

If  he  could  not  speak,  how  was  she  to  do  so?  He  had 
called  her  by  her  name,  the  same  name  that  any  merest 
stranger  would  have  used !  She  withdrew  her  hand  from 
his,  and  moved  as  though  to  return  to  her  seat.  "Eleanor!" 
he  then  said,  in  his  softest  tone,  as  though  the  courage  of  a 
lover  were  as  yet  but  half  assumed,  as  though  he  were  still 
afraid  of  giving  offence  by  the  freedom  which  he  took.  She 
looked  slowly,  gently,  almost  piteously  up  into  his  face. 
There  was  at  any  rate  no  anger  there  to  deter  him. 

"Eleanor !"  he  again  exclaimed ;  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
her  clasped  to  his  bosom.  How  this  was  done,  whether  the 
doing  was  with  him  or  her,  whether  she  had  flown  thither 
conquered  by  the  tenderness  of  his  voice,  or  he  with  a  vio- 
lence not  likely  to  give  offence  had  drawn  her  to  his  breast, 
neither  of  them  knew;  nor  can  I  declare.  There  was  now 
that  sympathy  between  them  which  hardlv  admitted  of  indi- 

480 


I 


MATCH-MAKING. 

vidual  motion.  They  were  one  and  the  same, — one  flesh, — 
one  spirit, — one  Ufe. 

"Eleanor,  my  own  Eleanor,  my  own,  my  wife !"  She 
ventured  to  look  up  at  him  through  her  tears,  and  he,  bowing 
his  face  down  over  hers,  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  brow ;  his 
virgin  lips,  which,  since  a  beard  first  grew  upon  his  chin, 
had  never  yet  tasted  the  luxury  of  a  woman's  cheek. 

She  had  been  told  that  her  yea  must  be  yea,  or  her  nay, 
nay ;  but  she  was  called  on  for  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
She  told  Miss  Thorne  that  she  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Arabin, 
but  no  such  words  had  passed  between  them,  no  promise  had 
been  asked  or  given. 

"Oh,  let  me  go,"  said  she;  "let  me  go  now.  I  am  too 
happy  to  remain, — let  me  go,  that  I  may  be  alone."  He  did 
not  try  to  hinder  her,  he  did  not  repeat  the  kiss ;  he  did  not 
press  another  on  her  lips.  He  might  have  done  so  had  he 
been  so  minded.  She  was  now  all  his  own.  He  took  his 
arm  from  round  her  waist,  his  arm  that  was  trembling  with 
a  new  delight,  and  let  her  go.  She  fled  like  a  roe  to  her  own 
chamber,  and  then,  having  turned  the  bolt,  she  enjoyed  the 
full  luxury  of  her  love.  She  idolised,  almost  worshipped 
this  man  who  had  so  meekly  begged  her  pardon.  And  he 
was  now  her  own.  Oh,  how  she  wept  and  cried  and  laughed, 
as  the  hopes  and  fears  and  miseries  of  the  last  few  weeks 
passed  in  remembrance  through  her  mind. 

Mr.  Slope !  That  any  one  should  have  dared  to  think  that 
she  who  had  been  chosen  by  him  could  possibly  have  mated 
herself  with  Mr.  Slope !  That  they  should  have  dared  to 
tell  him,  also,  and  subject  her  bright  happiness  to  such  need- 
less risk !  And  then  she  smiled  with  joy  as  she  thought  of 
all  the  comforts  that  she  could  give  him ;  not  that  he  cared 
for  comforts,  but  that  it  would  be  so  delicious  for  her  to  give. 

She  got  up  and  rang  for  her  maid  that  she  might  tell  her 
little  boy  of  his  new  father ;  and  in  her  own  way  she  did  tell 
him.  She  desired  her  maid  to  leave  her,  in  order  that  she 
might  be  alone  with  her  child ;  and  then,  while  he  lay  sprawl- 
ing on  the  bed,  she  poured  forth  the  praises,  all  unmeaning 
to  him,  of  the  man  she  had  selected  to  guard  his  infancy. 

She  could  not  be  happy,  however,  till  she  had  made  Mr. 
Arabin  take  the  child  to  himself,  and  thus,  as  it  were,  adopt 

81  481 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

him  as  his  own.  The  moment  the  idea  struck  her  she  took 
the  baby  up  in  her  arms,  and,  opening  her  door,  ran  quickly 
down  to  the  drawing-room.  She  at  once  found,  by  his  step 
still  pacing  on  the  floor,  that  he  was  there ;  and  a  glance 
within  the  room  told  her  that  he  was  alone.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  hurried  in  with  her  precious  charge. 

Mr.  Ar^bin  met  her  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "There," 
said  she,  breathless  with  her  haste;  "there,  take  him — take 
him  and  love  him." 

Mr.  Arabin  took  the  little  fellow  from  her,  and  kissing 
him  again  and  again,  prayed  God  to  bless  him.  "He  shall 
be  all  as  my  own — all  as  my  own,"  said  he.  Eleanor,  as  she 
stooped  to  take  back  her  child,  kissed  the  hand  that  held  him, 
and  then  rushed  back  with  her  treasure  to  her  chamber. 

It  was  thus  that  Mr.  Harding's  younger  daughter  was 
won  for  the  second  time.  At  dinner  neither  she  nor  Mr. 
Arabin  were  very  bright,  but  their  silence  occasioned  no  re- 
mark. In  the  drawing-room,  as  we  have  before  said,  she 
told  Miss  Thome  what  had  occurred.  The  next  morning 
she  returned  to  Barchester,  and  Mr.  Arabin  went  over  with 
his  budget  of  news  to  the  archdeacon.  As  Doctor  Grantly 
was  not  there,  he  could  only  satisfy  himself  by  telling  Mrs. 
Grantly  how  that  he  intended  himself  the  honour  of  becom- 
ing her  brother-in-law.  In  the  ecstasy  of  her  joy  at  hearing 
such  tidings,  Mrs.  Grantly  vouchsafed  him  a  warmer  wel- 
come than  any  he  had  yet  received  from  Eleanor. 

"Good  heavens !"  she  exclaimed — it  was  the  general  ex- 
clamation of  the  rectory.  "Poor  Eleanor !  Dear  Eleanor ! 
What  a  monstrous  injustice  has  been  done  her ! — Well,  it 
shall  all  be  made  up  now."  And  then  she  thought  of  the 
signora.     "What  lies  people  tell,"  she  said  to  herself. 

But  people  in  this  matter  had  told  no  lies  at  all. 


482 


THE   BELZEBUB    COLT. 
CHAPTER   XLIX. 

THE  BELZEBUB    COLT. 

WHEN  Miss  Thorne  left  the  dining-room,  Eleanor  had 
formed  no  intention  of  revealing  to  her  what  had 
occurred ;  but  when  she  was  seated  beside  her  hostess  on  the 
sofa  the  secret  dropped  from  her  almost  unawares.  Eleanor 
was  but  a  bad  hypocrite,  and  she  found  herself  quite  unable 
to  continue  talking  about  Mr.  Arabin  as  though  he  were  a 
stranger,  while  her  heart  was  full  of  him.  When  Miss 
Thorne,  pursuing  her  own  scheme  with  discreet  zeal,  asked 
the  young  widow  whether,  in  her  opinion,  it  would  not  be  a 
good  thing  for  Mr.  Arabin  to  get  married,  she  had  nothing 
for  it  but  to  confess  the  truth.  "I  suppose  it  would,"  said 
Eleanor,  rather  sheepishly.  Whereupon  Miss  Thorne  ampli- 
fied on  the  idea.  "Oh,  Miss  Thorne,"  said  Eleanor,  "he  is 
going  to  be  married :  I  am  engaged  to  him." 

Now  Miss  Thorne  knew  very  well  that  there  had  been  no 
such  engagement  when  she  had  been  walking  with  Mrs.  Bold 
in  the  morning.  She  had  also  heard  enough  to  be  tolerably 
sure  that  there  had  been  no  preliminaries  to  such  an  engage- 
ment. She  was,  therefore,  as  we  have  before  described, 
taken  a  little  by  surprise.  But,  nevertheless,  she  embraced 
her  guest,  and  cordially  congratulated  her. 

Eleanor  had  no  opportunity  of  speaking  another  word  td 
Mr.  Arabin  that  evening,  except  such  words  as  all  the  world 
might  hear;  and  these,  as  may  be  supposed,  were  few 
enough.  Miss  Thorne  did  her  best  to  leave  them  in  privacy ; 
but  Mr.  Thorne,  who  knew  nothing  of  what  had  occurred, 
and  another  guest,  a  friend  of  his,  entirely  interfered  with 
her  good  intentions.  So  poor  Eleanor  had  to  £!;o  to  bed 
without  one  sign  of  affection.  Her  state,  nevertheless,  was 
not  to  be  pitied. 

The  next  morning  she  was  up  early.  It  was  probable,  she 
thought,  that  by  going  down  a  little  before  the  usual  hour 
of  breakfast,  she  mi|[rht  find  Mr.  Arabin  alone  in  the  dining- 
room.  IMight  it  not  be  that  he  also  would  calculate  that  an 
interview  would  thus  be  possible?     Thus  thinking,  Eleanor 

483 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

was  dressed  a  full  hour  before  the  time  fixed  in  the  Ulla- 
thorne  household  for  morning  prayers.  She  did  not  at  once 
go  down.  She  was  afraid  to  seem  to  be  too  anxious  to  meet 
her  lover;  though,  heaven  knows,  her  anxiety  was  intense 
enough.  She  therefore  sat  herself  down  at  her  window, 
and  repeatedly  looking  at  her  watch,  nursed  her  child  till  she 
thought  she  might  venture  forth. 

When  she  found  herself  at  the  dining-room  door,  she 
stood  a  moment,  hesitating  to  turn  the  handle ;  but  when  she 
heard  Mr.  Thome's  voice  inside  she  hesitated  no  longer.  Her 
object  was  defeated,  and  she  might  now  go  in  as  soon  as  she 
liked  without  the  slightest  imputation  on  her  delicacy.  Mr. 
Thorne  and  Mr.  Arabin  were  standing  on  the  hearth-rug, 
discussing  the  merits  of  the  Belzebub  colt;  or  rather,  Mr. 
Thorne  was  discussing,  and  Mr.  Arabin  was  listening.  That 
interesting  animal  had  rubbed  the  stump  of  his  tail  against 
the  wall  of  his  stable,  and  occasioned  much  uneasiness  to  the 
Ullathorne  master  of  the  horse.  Had  Eleanor  but  waited 
another  minute,  Mr.  Thorne  would  have  been  in  the 
stables. 

Mr.  Thorne,  when  he  saw  his  lady  guest,  repressed  his 
anxiety.  The  Belzebub  colt  must  do  without  him.  And  so 
the  three  stood,  saying  little  or  nothing  to  each  other,  till  at 
last  the  master  of  the  house,  finding  that  he  could  no  longer 
bear  his  present  state  of  suspense  respecting  his  favourite 
young  steed,  made  an  elaborate  apology  to  Mrs.  Bold,  and 
escaped.  As  he  shut  the  door  behind  him,  Eleanor  almost 
wished  that  he  had  remained.  It  was  not  that  she  was  afraid 
of  Mr.  Arabin,  but  she  hardly  yet  knew  how  to  address  him. 

He,  however,  soon  relieved  her  from  her  embarrassment. 
He  came  up  to  her,  and  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  he  said : 
"So,  Eleanor,  you  and  I  are  to  be  man  and  wife.     Is  it  so?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  her  lips  formed  them- 
selves into  a  single  syllable.  She  uttered  no  sound,  but  he 
could  read  the  affirmative  plainly  in  her  face. 

"It  is  a  great  trust,"  said  he;  "a  very  great  trust." 

"It  is — it  is,"  said  Eleanor,  not  exactly  taking  what  he 
had  said  in  the  sense  that  he  had  meant.  "It  is  a  very,  very, 
great  trust,  and  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  deserve  it." 

"And  I  also  will  do  my  utmost  to  deserve  it,"  said  Mr. 

484 


THE    BELZEBUB    COLT. 

Arabin,  very  solemnly.  And  then,  winding  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  he  stood  there  gazing  at  the  fire,  and  she  with  her 
head  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  stood  by  him,  well  satisfied 
with  her  position.  They  neither  of  them  spoke,  or  found 
any  want  of  speaking.  All  that  was  needful  for  them  to  say 
had  been  said.  The  yea,  yea,  had  been  spoken  by  Eleanor  in 
her  own  way — and  that  way  had  been  perfectly  satisfactory 
to  Mr.  Arabin. 

And  now  it  remained  to  them  each  to  enjoy  the  assurance 
of  the  other's  love.  And  how  great  that  luxury  is !  How 
far  it  surpasses  any  other  pleasure  which  God  has  allowed 
to  his  creatures !  And  to  a  woman's  heart  how  doubly  de- 
lightful ! 

When  the  ivy  has  found  its  tower,  when  the  delicate  creep- 
er has  found  its  strong  wall,  we  know  how  the  parasite  plants 
grow  and  prosper.  They  were  not  created  to  stretch  forth 
their  branches  alone,  and  endure  without  protection  the  sum- 
mer's sun  and  the  winter's  storm.  Alone  they  but  spread 
themselves  on  the  ground,  and  cower  unseen  in  the  dingy 
shade.  But  when  they  have  found  their  firm  supporters, 
how  wonderful  is  their  beauty ;  how  all  pervading  and  vic- 
torious !  What  is  the  turret  without  its  ivy,  or  the  high 
garden-wall  without  the  jasmine  which  gives  it  its  beauty 
and  fragrance?  The  hedge  without  the  honeysuckle  is  but 
a  hedge. 

There  is  a  feeling  still  half  existing,  but  now  half  con- 
quered by  the  force  of  human  nature,  that  a  woman  should 
be  ashamed  of  her  love  till  the  husband's  right  to  her  com- 
pels her  to  acknowledge  it.  We  would  fain  preach  a  differ- 
ent doctrine.  A  woman  should  glory  in  her  love;  but  on 
that  account  let  her  take  the  more  care  that  it  be  such  as  to 
justify  her  glory. 

Eleanor  did  glory  in  hers,  and  she  felt,  and  had  cause  to 
feel,  that  it  deserved  to  be  held  as  glorious.  She  could 
have  stood  there  for  hours  with  his  arm  round  her,  had  fate 
and  Mr.  Thorne  permitted  it.  Each  moment  she  crept  near- 
er to  his  bosom,  and  felt  more  and  more  certain  that  there 
was  her  home.  What  now  to  her  was  the  archdeacon's  arro- 
gance, her  sister's  coldness,  or  her  dear  father's  weakness? 
What  need   she  care   for  the  duplicity  of  such   friends  as 

485 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Charlotte  Stanhope?  She  had  found  the  strong  shield  that 
should  guard  her  from  all  wrongs,  the  trusty  pilot  that 
should  henceforward  guide  her  through  the  shoals  and  rocks. 
She  would  give  up  the  heavy  burden  of  her  independence, 
and  once  more  assume  the  position  of  a  woman,  and  the  du- 
ties of  a  trusting  and  loving  wife. 

And  he,  too,  stood  there  fully  satisfied  with  his  place. 
They  were  both  looking  intently  on  the  fire,  as  though  they 
could  read  there  their  future  fate,  till  at  last  Eleanor  turned 
her  face  towards  his.  "How  sad  you  are,"  she  said,  smiling; 
and  indeed  his  face  was,  if  not  sad,  at  least  serious.  "How 
sad  you  are,  love !" 

"Sad,"  said  he,  looking  down  at  her;  "no,  certainly  not 
sad."  Her  sweet  loving  eyes  were  turned  towards  him,  and 
she  smiled  softly  as  he  answered  her.  The  temptation  was 
too  strong  even  for  the  demure  propriety  of  Mr.  Arabin,  and, 
bending  over  her,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

Immediately  after  this,  Mr.  Thorne  appeared,  and  they 
were  both  delighted  to  hear  that  the  tail  of  the  Belzebub  colt 
was  not  materially  injured. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Harding's  intention  to  hurry  over  to  Ulla- 
thorne  as  soon  as  possible  after  his  return  to  Barchester,  in 
order  to  secure  the  support  of  his  daughter  in  his  meditated 
revolt  against  the  archdeacon  as  touching  the  deanery;  but 
he  was  spared  the  additional  journey  by  hearing  that  Mrs. 
Bold  had  returned  unexpectedly  home.  As  soon  as  he  had 
read  her  note  he  started  ofiF,  and  found  her  waiting  for  him 
in  her  own  house. 

How  much  each  of  them  had  to  tell  the  other,  and  how 
certain  each  was  that  the  story  which  he  or  she  had  to  tell 
would  astonish  the  other ! 

"My  dear,  I  am  so  anxious  to  see  you,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
kissing  his  daughter. 

"Oh.  papa,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you !"  said  the  daughter, 
returning  the  embrace. 

"My  dear,  they  have  offered  me  the  deanery !"  said  Mr. 
Harding,  anticipating  by  the  suddenness  of  the  revelation  the 
tidings  which  Eleanor  had  to  give  him. 

"Oh,  papa,"  said  she,  forgetting  her  own  love  and  happi- 
ness in  her  joy  at  the  surprising  news ;  "oh,  papa,  can  it  be 

486 


THE    BELZEBUB    COLT. 

possible?  Dear  papa,  how  thoroughly,  thoroughly  happy 
that  makes  me !" 

"But,  my  dear,  I  think  it  best  to  refuse  it." 

"Oh,  papa!" 

"I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me,  Eleanor,  when  I  ex- 
plain it  to  you.  You  know,  my  dear,  how  old  I  am.  If  I 
live,  I " 

"But,  papa,  I  must  tell  you  about  myself." 

"Well,  my  dear." 

"I  do  so  wonder  how  you'll  take  it." 

"Take  what?" 

"If  you  don't  rejoice  at  it,  if  it  doesn't  make  you  happy,  if 
you  don't  encourage  me,  I  shall  break  my  heart." 

"If  that  be  the  case,  Nelly,  I  certainly  will  encourage  you." 

"But  I  fear  you  won't.  I  do  so  fear  you  won't.  And 
yet  you  can't  but  think  I  am  the  most  fortunate  woman  living 
on  God's  earth." 

"Are  you,  dearest?  Then  I  certainly  will  rejoice  with 
you.     Come,  Nelly,  come  to  me,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  am  going " 

He  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and  seating  himself  beside  her,  took 
both  her  hands  in  his.  "You  are  going  to  be  married,  Nelly. 
Is  not  that  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  faintly.  "That  is,  if  you  will  approve ;" 
and  then  she  blushed  as  she  remembered  the  promise  which 
she  had  so  lately  volunteered  to  him,  and  which  she  had  so 
utterly  forgotten  in  making  her  engagement  with  Mr.  Arabin. 

Mr.  Harding  thought  for  a  moment  who  the  man  could  be 
whom  he  was  to  be  called  upon  to  welcome  as  his  son-in- 
law.  A  week  since  he  would  have  had  no  doubt  whom  to 
name.  In  that  case  he  would  have  been  prepared  to  give 
his  sanction,  although  he  would  have  done  so  with  a  heavy 
heart.  Now  he  knew  that  at  any  rate  it  would  not  be  Mr. 
Slope,  though  he  was  perfectly  at  a  loss  to  guess  who  could 
possibly  have  filled  the  place.  For  a  moment  he  thought 
that  the  man  might  be  Bertie  Stanhope,  and  his  very  soul 
sank  within  him. 

"Well,  Nelly?" 

"Oh,  papa,  promise  to  me  that,  for  my  sake,  you  will  love 
him." 

487 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

"Come,  Nelly,  come;  tell  me  who  it  is." 

"But  will  you  love  him,  papa?" 

"Dearest,  I  must  love  any  one  that  you  love."  Then  she 
turned  her  face  to  his,  and  whispered  into  his  ear  the  name 
of  Mr.  Arabin. 

No  man  that  she  could  have  named  could  have  more  sur- 
prised or  more  delighted  him.  Had  he  looked  round  the 
world  for  a  son-in-law  to  his  taste,  he  could  have  selected 
no  one  whom  he  would  have  preferred  to  Mr.  Arabin.  He 
was  a  clergyman ;  he  held  a  living  in  the  neighbourhood ;  he 
was  of  a  set  to  which  all  Mr.  Harding's  own  partialities  most 
closely  adhered ;  he  was  the  great  friend  of  Dr.  Grantly ;  and 
he  was,  moreover,  a  man  of  whom  Mr.  Harding  knew  noth- 
ing but  what  he  approved.  Nevertheless,  his  surprise  was 
so  great  as  to  prevent  the  immediate  expression  of  his  joy. 
He  had  never  thought  of  Mr.  Arabin  in  connection  with  his 
daughter;  he  had  never  imagined  that  they  had  any  feeling 
in  common.  He  had  feared  that  his  daughter  had  been 
made  hostile  to  clergymen  of  Mr.  Arabin's  stamp  by  her 
intolerance  of  the  archdeacon's  pretensions.  Had  he  been 
put  to  wish,  he  might  have  wished  for  Mr.  Arabin  for  a  son- 
in-law  ;  but  had  he  been  put  to  guess,  the  name  would  never 
have  occurred  to  him, 

"Mr.  Arabin  !"  he  exclaimed ;  "impossible !" 

"Oh,  papa,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  say  anything  against 
him !  If  you  love  me,  don't  say  anything  against  him.  Oh, 
papa,  it's  done,  and  mustn't  be  undone — oh,  papa !" 

Fickle  Eleanor !  where  \yas  the  promise  that  she  would 
make  no  choice  for  herself  without  her  father's  approval? 
She  had  chosen,  and  now  demanded  his  acquiescence.  "Oh, 
papa,  isn't  he  good?  isn't  he  noble?  isn't  he  religious,  high- 
minded,  everything  that  a  good  man  possibly  can  be?"  and 
she  clung  to  her  father,  beseeching  him  for  his  consent. 

"My  Nelly,  my  child,  my  own  daughter !  He  is ;  he  is 
noble  and  good  and  high-minded ;  he  is  all  that  a  woman 
can  love  and  a  man  admire.  He  shall  be  my  son,  my  own 
son.  He  shall  be  as  close  to  my  heart  as  you  are.  My 
Nelly,  my  child,  my  happy,  happy  child !" 

We  need  not  pursue  the  interview  any  further.  By  de- 
grees they  returned  to  the  subject  of  the  new  promotion. 

488 


THE    ARCHDEACON    IS    SATISFIED. 

Eleanor  tried  to  prove  to  him,  as  the  Grantlys  had  done,  that 
his  age  could  be  no  bar  to  his  being  a  very  excellent  dean ; 
but  those  arguments  had  now  even  less  weight  on  him  than 
before.  He  said  little  or  nothing,  but  sat  meditative.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  kiss  his  daughter,  and  say  "yes,"  or 
"no,"  or  "very  true,"  or  "well,  my  dear,  I  can't  quite  agree 
with  you  there,"  but  he  could  not  be  got  to  enter  sharply 
into  the  question  of  "to  be,  or  not  to  be"  dean  of  Barchester. 
Of  her  and  her  happiness,  of  Mr.  Arabin  and  his  virtues, 
he  would  talk  as  much  as  Eleanor  desired;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  that  was  not  a  little;  but  about  the  deanery  he  would 
now  say  nothing  further.  He  had  got  a  new  idea  into  his 
head — Why  should  not  Mr.  Arabin  be  the  new  dean? 


CHAPTER   L. 

THE  ARCHDEACON   IS  SATISFIED  WITH   THE  STATE  OF  AFFAIRS. 

THE  archdeacon,  in  his  journey  into  Barchester,  had 
been  assured  by  Mr.  Harding  that  all  their  prognosti- 
cations about  Mr.  Slope  and  Eleanor  were  groundless.  Mr. 
Harding,  however,  had  found  it  very  difficult  to  shake  his 
son-in-law's  faith  in  his  own  acuteness.  The  matter  had,  to 
Dr.  Grantly,  been  so  plainly  corroborated  by  such  patent 
evidence,  borne  out  by  such  endless  circumstances,  that  he  at 
first  refused  to  take  as  true  the  positive  statement  which  Mr. 
Harding  made  to  him  of  Eleanor's  own  disavowal  of  the 
impeachment.  But  at  last  he  yielded  in  a  qualified  way.  He 
brought  himself  to  admit  that  he  would  at  the  present  re- 
gard his  past  convictions  as  a  mistake ;  but  in  doing  this  he 
so  guarded  himself,  that  if,  at  any  future  time,  Eleanor 
should  come  forth  to  the  world  as  Mrs.  Slope,  he  might  still 
be  able  to  say :  "There,  I  told  you  so.  Remember  what 
you  said  and  what  I  said ;  and  remember  also  for  coming 
years,  that  I  was  right  in  this  matter, — as  in  all  others." 

He  carried,  however,  his  concession  so  far  as  to  bring 
himself  to  undertake  to  call  at  Eleanor's  house,  and  he  did 
call  accordingly,  while  the  father  and  daughter  were  yet  in 
the  middle  of  their  conference.     Mr.  Harding  had  had  so 

489 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

much  to  hear  and  to  say  that  he  had  forgotten  to  advertise 
Eleanor  of  the  honour  that  awaited  her,  and  she  heard  her 
brother-in-law's  voice  in  the  hall,  while  she  was  quite  unpre- 
pared to  see  him. 

"There's  the  archdeacon,"  she  said,  springing  up. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  He  told  me  to  tell  you  that  he  would 
come  and  see  you ;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

Eleanor  fled  away,  regardless  of  all  her  father's  entreaties. 
She  could  not  now,  in  the  first  hours  of  her  joy,  bring  her- 
self to  bear  all  the  archdeacon's  retractions,  apologies,  and 
congratulations.  He  would  have  so  much  to  say,  and  would 
be  so  tedious  in  saying  it;  consequently,  the  archdeacon, 
when  he  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  found  no  one 
there  but  Mr.  Harding. 

"You  must  excuse  Eleanor,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  asked  the  doctor,  who  at  once 
anticipated  that  the  whole  truth  about  Mr.  Slope  had  at  last 
come  out. 

"Well,  something  is  the  matter.  I  wonder  now  whether 
you  will  be  much  surprised?" 

The  archdeacon  saw  by  his  father-in-law's  manner  that 
after  all  he  had  nothing  to  tell  him  about  Mr.  Slope.  "No," 
said  he,  "certainly  not — nothing  will  ever  surprise  me  again." 
Very  many  men  now-a-days,  besides  the  archdeacon,  adopt 
or  affect  to  adopt  the  nil  admirari  doctrine ;  but  nevertheless, 
to  judge  from  their  appearance,  they  are  just  as  subject  to 
sudden  emotions  as  their  grandfathers  and  grandmothers 
were  before  them. 

"What  do  you  think  Mr.  Arabin  has  done?" 

"Mr.  Arabin !  It's  nothing  about  that  daughter  of  Stan- 
hope's, I  hope?" 

"No,  not  that  woman,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  enjoying  his 
joke  in  his  sleeve. 

"Not  that  woman !  Is  he  going  to  do  anything  about  any 
woman  ?  Why  can't  you  speak  out  if  you  have  anything  to 
sav?  There  is  nothing  I  hate  so  much  as  these  sort  of  mys- 
teries." 

"There  shall  be  no  mystery  with  you,  archdeacon ;  though, 
of  course,  it  must  go  no  further  at  present." 

4QO 


THE   ARCHDEACON    IS    SATISFIED. 

"Well." 

"Except  Susan.  You  must  promise  me  you'll  tell  no  one 
else." 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  the  archdeacon,  who  was  becom- 
ing angrv  in  his  suspense.  "You  can't  have  any  secret  about 
Mr.  Arabin." 

"Only  this — that  he  and  Eleanor  are  engaged." 

It  was  quite  clear  to  see,  by  the  archdeacon's  face,  that  he 
did  not  believe  a  word  of  it.   "Mr.  Arabin!   It's  impossible!" 

"Eleanor,  at  any  rate,  has  just  now  told  me  so." 

"It's  impossible,"  repeated  the  archdeacon. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I  think  it  impossible.  It  certainly  took 
me  by  surprise ;  but  that  does  not  make  it  impossible." 

"She  must  be  mistaken." 

Mr.  Harding  assured  him  that  there  was  no  mistake ;  that 
he  would  find,  on  returning  home,  that  Mr.  Arabin  had  been 
at  Plumstead  with  the  express  object  of  making  the  same 
declaration,  that  even  Miss  Thorne  knew  all  about  it;  and 
that,  in  fact,  the  thing  was  as  clearly  settled  as  any  such  ar- 
rangement between  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  could  well  be. 

"Good  heavens !"  said  the  archdeacon,  walking  up  and 
down  Eleanor's  drawing-room.  "Good  heavens !  Good 
heavens !" 

Now,  these  exclamations  certainly  betokened  faith.  Mr. 
Harding  properly  gathered  from  it  that,  at  last.  Dr.  Grantly 
did  believe  the  fact.  The  first  utterance  clearly  evinced  a 
certain  amount  of  distaste  at  the  information  he  had  received ; 
the  second,  simply  indicated  surprise;  in  the  tone  of  the 
third,  Mr.  Harding  fancied  that  he  could  catch  a  certain 
gleam  of  satisfaction. 

The  archdeacon  had  truly  expressed  the  workings  of  his 
mind.  He  could  not  but  be  disgusted  to  find  how  utterly 
astray  he  had  been  in  all  his  anticipations.  Had  he  only 
been  lucky  enough  to  have  suggested  this  marriage  himself 
when  he  first  brought  Mr.  Arabin  into  the  country,  his  char- 
acter for  judgment  and  wisdom  would  have  received  an  ad- 
dition which  would  have  classed  him  at  any  rate  next  to 
Solomon.  And  why  had  he  not  done  so?  Might  he  not 
have  foreseen  that  Mr.  Arabin  would  want  a  wife  in  his 
parsonage?     He  had  foreseen   that  Eleanor  would   want  a 

491 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

husband;  but  should  he  not  also  have  perceived  that  Mr. 
Arabin  was  a  man  much  more  likely  to  attract  her  than  Mr. 
Slope?  The  archdeacon  found  that  he  had  been  at  fault, 
and  of  course  could  not  immediately  get  over  his  discom- 
fiture. 

Then  his  surprise  was  intense.  How  sly  this  pair  of  young 
turtle  doves  had  been  with  him.  How  egregiously  they  had 
hoaxed  him.  He  had  preached  to  Eleanor  against  her  fan- 
cied attachment  to  Mr.  Slope,  at  the  very  time  that  she  was 
in  love  with  his  own  protege,  Mr.  Arabin ;  and  had  abso- 
lutely taken  that  same  Mr.  Arabin  into  his  confidence  with 
reference  to  his  dread  of  Mr.  Slope's  alliance.  It  was  very 
natural  that  the  archdeacon  should  feel  surprise. 

But  there  was  also  great  ground  for  satisfaction.  Look- 
ing at  the  match  by  itself,  it  was  the  very  thing  to  help  the 
doctor  out  of  his  difficulties.  In  the  first  place,  the  assur- 
ance that  he  should  never  have  Mr.  Slope  for  his  brother-in- 
law,  was  in  itself  a  great  comfort.  Then  Mr.  Arabin  was, 
of  all  men,  the  one  with  whom  it  would  best  suit  him  to  be 
so  intimately  connected.  But  the  crowning  comfort  was  the 
blow  which  this  marriage  would  give  to  Mr.  Slope.  He  had 
now  certainly  lost  his  wife ;  rumour  was  beginning  to  whis- 
per that  he  might  possibly  lose  his  position  in  the  palace ;  and 
if  Mr.  Harding  would  only  be  true,  the  great  danger  of  all 
would  be  surmounted.  In  such  case  it  might  be  expected 
that  Mr.  Slope  would  own  himself  vanquished,  and  take 
himself  altogether  away  from  Barchester.  And  so  the  arch- 
deacon would  again  be  able  to  breathe  pure  air. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he.  "Good  heavens!  good  heavens!" 
and  the  tone  of  the  fifth  exclamation  made  Mr.  Harding  fully 
aware  that  content  was  reigning  in  the  archdeacon's  bosom. 

And  then  slowly,  gradually,  and  craftily  Mr.  Harding  pro- 
pounded his  own  new  scheme.  Why  should  not  Mr.  Arabin 
be  the  new  dean? 

Slowly,  gradually,  and  thoughtfully  Dr.  Grantly  fell  into 
his  father-in-law's  views.  Much  as  he  liked  Mr.  Arabin, 
sincere  as  was  his  admiration  for  that  gentleman's  ecclesias- 
tical abilities,  he  would  not  have  sanctioned  a  measure  which 
would  rob  his  father-in-law  of  his  fairly-earned  promotion, 
were  it  at  all  practicable  to  induce  his  father-in-law  to  accept 

492 


THE   ARCHDEACON    IS    SATISFIED. 

the  promotion  which  he  had  earned.  But  the  archdeacon 
had,  on  a  former  occasion,  received  proof  of  the  obstinacy 
with  which  Mr.  Harding  could  adhere  to  his  own  views  in 
opposition  to  the  advice  of  all  his  friends.  He  knew  toler- 
ably well  that  nothing  would  induce  the  meek,  mild  man  be- 
fore him  to  take  the  high  place  offered  to  him,  if  he  thought 
it  wrong  to  do  so.  Knowing  this,  he  also  said  to  himself 
more  than  once :  "Why  should  not  Mr.  Arabin  be  Dean  of 
Barchester?"  It  was  at  last  arranged  between  them  that 
they  would  together  start  to  London  by  the  earliest  train 
on  the  following  morning,  making  a  little  detour  to  Oxford 
on  their  journey.  Dr.  G Wynne's  counsels,  they  imagined, 
might  perhaps  be  of  assistance  to  them. 

These  matters  settled,  the  archdeacon  hurried  off,  that  he 
might  return  to  Plumstead  and  prepare  for  his  journey.  The 
day  was  extremely  fine,  and  he  came  into  the  city  in  an  open 
gig.  As  he  was  driving  up  the  High  Street  he  encountered 
Mr.  Slope  at  a  crossing.  Had  he  not  pulled  up  rather  sharp- 
ly, he  would  have  run  over  him.  The  two  had  never  spoken 
to  each  other  since  they  had  met  on  a  memorable  occasion 
in  the  bishop's  study.  They  did  not  speak  now;  but  they 
looked  each  other  full  in  the  face,  and  Mr.  Slope's  counte- 
nance was  as  impudent,  as  triumphant,  as  defiant  as  ever. 
Had  Dr.  Grantly  not  known  to  the  contrary,  he  would  have 
imagined  that  his  enemy  had  won  the  deanship,  the  wife,  and 
all  the  rich  honours,  for  which  he  had  been  striving.  As  it 
was,  he  had  lost  everything  that  he  had  in  the  world,  and  had 
just  received  his  conge  from  the  bishop. 

In  leaving  the  town  the  archdeacon  drove  by  the  well- 
remembered  entrance  of  Hiram's  hospital.  There,  at  the 
gate,  was  a  large,  untidy,  farmer's  wagon,  laden  with  untidy- 
looking  furniture ;  and  there,  inspecting  the  arrival,  was  good 
Mrs.  Quiverful — not  dressed  in  her  Sunday  best — not  verv 
clean  in  her  apparel — not  graceful  as  to  her  bonnet  and 
shawl ;  or,  indeed,  with  many  feminine  charms  as  to  her 
whole  appearance.  She  was  busy  at  domestic  work  in  her 
new  house,  and  had  just  ventured  out,  expecting  to  see  no 
one  on  the  arrival  of  the  family  chattels.  The  archdeacon 
was  down  upon  her  before  she  knew  where  she  was. 

Her  acquaintance  with  Dr.  Grantly  or  his  family  was  very 

493 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

slight  indeed.  The  archdeacon,  as  a  matter  of  course,  knew 
every  clergyman  in  the  archdeaconry,  it  may  almost  be  said 
in  the  diocese,  and  had  some  acquaintance,  more  or  less  inti- 
mate, with  their  wives  and  families.  With  Mr.  Quiverful 
he  had  been  concerned  on  various  matters  of  business ;  but  of 
Mrs.  Q.  he  had  seen  very  little.  Now,  however,  he  was  in 
too  gracious  a  mood  to  pass  her  by  unnoticed.  The  Quiver- 
fuls, one  and  all,  had  looked  for  the  bitterest  hostility  from 
Dr.  Grantly ;  they  knew  his  anxiety  that  Mr.  Harding  should 
return  to  his  old  home  at  the  hospital,  and  they  did  not  know 
that  a  new  home  had  been  offered  to  him  at  the  deanery. 
Mrs.  Quiverful  was  therefore  not  a  little  surprised  and  not  a 
little  rejoiced  also,  at  the  tone  in  which  she  was  addressed. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Quiverful  ? — how  do  you  do  ?"  said 
•he,  stretching  his  left  hand  out  of  the  gig,  as  he  spoke  to  her. 
'T  am  very  glad  to  see  you  employed  in  so  pleasant  and  use- 
ful a  manner ;  very  glad  indeed." 

Mrs.  Quiverful  thanked  him,  and  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  looked  into  his  face  suspiciously.  She  was  not  sure 
whether  the  congratulations  and  kindness  were  or  were  not 
ironical. 

"Pray  tell  Mr.  Quiverful  from  me,"  he  continued,  "that  I 
am  rejoiced  at  his  appointment.  It's  a  comfortable  place, 
]\lrs.  Quiverful,  and  a  comfortable  house,  and  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you  in  it.  Good-bye — good-bye."  And  he  drove  on, 
leaving  the  lady  well  pleased  and  astonished  at  his  good- 
nature. On  the  whole  things  were  going  well  with  the  arch- 
deacon, and  he  could  afford  to  be  charitable  to  Mrs.  Quiver- 
ful. He  looked  forth  from  his  gig  smilingly  on  all  the  world, 
and  forgave  every  one  in  Barchester  their  sins,  excepting 
only  Mrs.  Proudie  and  Mr.  Slope.  Had  he  seen  the  bishop, 
he  would  have  felt  inclined  to  pat  even  him  kindly  on  the 
head. 

He  determined  to  go  home  by  St.  Ewold's.  This  would 
take  him  some  three  miles  out  of  his  way ;  but  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  leave  Plumstead  comfortably  without  saving  one 
word  of  eood  fellowship  to  Mr.  Arabin.  When  he  reached 
the  parsonage  the  vicar  was  still  out;  but.  from  what  he  had 
heard,  he  did  not  doubt  but  that  he  would  meet  him  on  the 
road  between  their  two  houses.     He  was  right  in  this,  for 

494 


THE   ARCHDEACON    IS    SATISFIED. 

about  halfway  home,  at  a  narrow  turn,  he  came  upon  Mr. 
Arabin,  who  was  on  horseback. 

"Well,  well,  well,  well;"  said  the  archdeacon,  loudly,  joy- 
ously, and  with  supreme  good  humour;  "well,  well,  well, 
well;  so,  after  all,  we  have  no  further  cause  to  fear  Mr. 
Slope." 

'T  hear  from  Mrs,  Grantly  that  they  have  offered  the 
deanery  to  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the  other. 

"Mr.  Slope  has  lost  more  than  the  deanery,  I  find,"  and 
then  the  archdeacon  laughed  jocosely.  "Come,  come,  Ara- 
bin, you  have  kept  your  secret  well  enough.  I  know  all 
about  it  now." 

"I  have  had  no  secret,  archdeacon,"  said  the  other  with  a 
quiet  smile.  "None  at  all — not  for  a  day.  It  was  only  yes- 
terday that  I  knew  my  own  good  fortune,  and  to-day  I  went 
over  to  Plumstead  to  ask  your  approval.  From  what  Mrs. 
Grantly  has  said  to  me,  I  am  led  to  hope  that  I  shall  have  it." 

"With  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  the  archdea- 
con cordially,  holding  his  friend  fast  by  the  hand.  "It's  just 
as  I  would  have  it.  She  is  an  excellent  young  woman;  she 
will  not  come  to  you  empty-handed;  and  I  think  she  will 
make  you  a  good  wife.  If  she  does  her  duty  by  you  as  her 
sister  does  by  me,  you'll  be  a  happy  man;  that's  all  I  can 
say."  And  as  he  finished  speaking,  a  tear  might  have  been 
observed  in  each  of  the  doctor's  eyes. 

Mr.  Arabin  warmly  returned  the  archdeacon's  grasp,  but 
he  said  little.  His  heart  was  too  full  for  speaking,  and  he 
could  not  express  the  gratitude  which  he  felt.  Dr.  Grantly 
understood  him  as  well  as  though  he  had  spoken  for  an  hour. 

"And  mind,  Arabin,"  said  he,  "no  one  but  myself  shall  tie 
the  knot.  We'll  get  Eleanor  out  to  Plumstead,  and  it  shall 
come  off  there.  I'll  make  Susan  stir  herself,  and  we'll  do  it 
in  style.  I  must  be  off  to  London  to-morrow  on  special  busi- 
ness. Harding  goes  with  me.  But  I'll  be  back  before  your 
bride  has  got  her  wedding  dress  ready."    And  so  they  parted. 

On  his  journey  home  the  archdeacon  occupied  his  mind 
with  preparations  for  the  marriage  festivities.  He  made  a 
great  resolve  that  he  would  atone  to  Eleanor  for  all  the  in- 
jury he  had  done  her  by  the  munificence  of  his  future  treat- 
ment.    He  would  show  her  what  was  the  difference  in  his 

495 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

eyes  between  a  Slope  and  an  Arabin.  On  one  other  thing 
also  he  decided  with  a  firm  mind :  if  the  affair  of  the  dean 
should  not  be  settled  in  Mr.  Arabin's  favour,  nothing  should 
prevent  him  putting  a  new  front  and  bow-window  to  the 
dining-room  at  St.  Ewold's  parsonage. 

"So  we're  sold  after  all,  Sue,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  accost- 
ing her  with  a  kiss  as  soon  as  he  entered  his  house.  He  did 
not  call  his  wife  Sue  above  twice  or  thrice  in  a  year,  and 
these  occasions  were  great  high  days, 

"Eleanor  has  had  more  sense  than  we  gave  her  credit  for," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

And  there  was  great  content  in  Plumstead  rectory  that 
evening;  and  Mrs.  Grantly  promised  her  husband  that  she 
would  now  open  her  heart,  and  take  Mr.  Arabin  into  it. 
Hitherto  she  had  declined  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

MR.    SLOPE   BIDS   FAREWELL  TO   THE   PALACE  AND   ITS 
INHABITANTS. 

WE  must  now  take  leave  of  Mr.  Slope,  and  of  the  bishop 
also,  and  of  Mrs.  Proudie.  These  leave-takings  in 
novels  are  as  disagreeable  as  they  are  in  real  life ;  not  so  sad, 
indeed,  for  they  want  the  reality  of  sadness ;  but  quite  as  per- 
plexing, and  generally  less  satisfactory.  What  novelist, 
what  Fielding,  what  Scott,  what  George  Sand,  or  Sue,  or 
Dumas,  can  impart  an  interest  to  the  last  chapter  of  his  ficti- 
tious history?  Promises  of  two  children  and  superhuman 
happiness  are  of  no  avail  nor  assurance  of  extreme  respecta- 
bility carried  to  an  age  far  exceeding  that  usually  allotted  to 
mortals.  The  sorrows  of  our  heroes  and  heroines,  they  are 
your  delight,  oh  public !  their  sorrows,  or  their  sins,  or  their 
absurdities;  not  their  virtues,  good  sense,  and  consequent 
rewards.  When  we  begin  to  tint  our  final  pages  with  coiileur 
de  rose,  as  in  accordance  with  fixed  rule  we  must  do,  we 
altogether  extinguish  our  own  powers  of  pleasing.  When 
we  become  dull  we  offend  your  intellect ;  and  we  must  be- 
come dull  or  we  should  offend  your  taste.     A  late  writer, 

496 


II 


MR.    SLOPE    BIDS    FAREWELL. 

wishing  to  sustain  his  interest  to  the  last  page,  hung  his  hero 
at  the  end  of  the  third  volume.  The  consequence  was,  that 
no  one  would  read  his  novel.  And  who  can  apportion  out 
and  dovetail  his  incidents,  dialogues,  characters,  and  descrip- 
tive morsels,  so  as  to  fit  them  all  exactly  into  439  pages, 
without  either  compressing  them  unnaturally,  or  extending 
them  artificially  at  the  end  of  his  labour?  Do  I  not  myself 
know  that  I  am  at  this  moment  in  want  of  a  dozen  pages, 
and  that  I  am  sick  with  cudgelling  my  brains  to  find  them  ? 
And  then  when  everything  is  done,  the  kindest-hearted  critic 
of  them  all  invariably  twits  us  with  the  incompetency  and 
lameness  of  our  conclusion.  We  have  either  become  idle  and 
neglected  it,  or  tedious  and  over-laboured  it.  It  is  insipid  or 
unnatural,  overstrained  or  imbecile.  It  means  nothing,  or  at- 
tempts too  much.  The  last  scene  of  all,  as  all  last  scenes 
we  fear  must  be, 

"Is    second    childishness,   and   mere   oblivion, 
Sans  teeth,   sans  eyes,   sans  taste,  sans  everything." 

I  can  only  say  that  if  some  critic,  who  thoroughly  knows 
his  work,  and  has  laboured  on  it  till  experience  has  made 
him  perfect,  will  write  the  last  fifty  pages  of  a  novel  in  the 
way  they  should  be  written,  I,  for  one,  will  in  future  do  my 
best  to  copy  the  example.  Guided  by  my  own  lights  only,  I 
confess  that  I  despair  of  success. 

For  the  last  week  or  ten  days,  Mr.  Slope  had  seen  nothing 
of  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  very  little  of  the  bishop.  He  still  lived 
in  the  palace,  and  still  went  through  his  usual  routine  work ; 
but  the  confidential  doings  of  the  diocese  had  passed  into 
other  hands.  He  had  seen  this  clearly,  and  marked  it  well ; 
but  it  had  not  much  disturbed  him.  He  had  indulged  in 
other  hopes  till  the  bishop's  affairs  had  become  dull  to  him, 
and  he  was  moreover  aware  that,  as  regarded  the  diocese, 
Mrs.  Proudie  had  checkmated  him.  It  has  been  explained, 
in  the  beginning  of  these  pages,  how  three  or  four  were 
contending  together  as  to  who.  in  fact,  should  be  bishop  of 
Barchester.  Each  of  these  had  now  admitted  to  himself  (or 
boasted  to  herself)  that  Mrs.  Proudie  was  victorious  in  the 
struggle.  They  had  gone  through  a  competitive  examina- 
tion of  considerable  severity,  and  she  had  come  forth  the 

32  497 


•    BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

winner,  facile  princeps.  Mr,  Slope  had,  for  a  moment,  run 
her  hard,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  It  had  become,  as 
it  were,  acknowledged  that  Hiram's  hospital  should  be  the 
testing  point  between  them,  and  now  Mr.  Quiverful  was  al- 
ready in  the  hospital,  the  proof  of  Mrs.  Proudie's  skill  and 
courage. 

All  this  did  not  break  down  Mr.  Slope's  spirit,  because  he 
had  other  hopes.  But,  alas,  at  last  there  came  to  him  a  note 
from  his  friend  Sir  Nicholas,  informing  him  that  the  dean- 
ship  was  disposed  of.  Let  us  give  Mr.  Slope  his  due.  He 
did  not  lie  prostrate  under  this  blow,  or  give  himself  up  to 
vain  lamentations ;  he  did  not  henceforward  despair  of  life, 
and  call  upon  gods  above  and  gods  below  to  carry  him  off. 
He  sat  himself  down  in  his  chair,  counted  out  what  monies 
he  had  in  hand  for  present  purposes,  and  what  others  were 
coming  in  to  him,  bethought  himself  as  to  the  best  sphere 
for  his  future  exertions,  and  at  once  wrote  off  a  letter  to  a 
rich  sugar-refiner's  wife  in  Baker  Street,  who,  as  he  well 
knew,  was  much  given  to  the  entertainment  and  encourage- 
ment of  serious  young  evangelical  clergymen.  He  was 
again,  he  said,  "upon  the  world,  having  found  the  air  of  a 
cathedral  town,  and  the  very  nature  of  cathedral  services, 
uncongenial  to  his  spirit ;"  and  then  he  sat  awhile,  making 
firm  resolves  as  to  his  manner  of  parting  from  the  bishop, 
and  also  as  to  his  future  conduct. 

"At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue    (black), 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 

Having  received  a  formal  command  to  wait  upon  the 
bishop,  he  rose  and  proceeded  to  obey  it.  He  rang  the  bell 
and  desired  the  servant  to  inform  his  master  that  if  it  suited 
his  lordship,  he,  Mr.  Slope,  was  ready  to  wait  upon  him. 
The  servant,  who  well  understood  that  Mr.  Slope  was  no 
longer  in  the  ascendant,  brought  back  a  message,  saying  that 
"his  lordship  desired  that  Mr.  Slope  would  attend  him  imme- 
diately in  his  study."  Mr.  Slope  waited  about  ten  minutes 
more  to  prove  his  independence,  and  then  he  went  into  the 
bishop's  room.  There,  as  he  had  expected,  he  found  Mrs» 
Proudie,  together  with  her  husband. 

498 


MR.    SLOPE    BIDS    FAREWELL. 

"Hum,  ha, — Mr.  Slope,  pray  take  a  chair,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman bishop. 

"Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  the  lady  bishop. 

"Thank  ye,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  and  walking  round 
to  the  fire,  he  threw  himself  into  one  of  the  arm-chairs  that 
graced  the  hearth-rug. 

"Mr.  Slope,"  said  the  bishop,  "it  has  become  necessary 
that  I  should  speak  to  you  definitely  on  a  matter  that  has  for 
some  time  been  pressing  itself  on  my  attention." 

"May  I  ask  whether  the  subject  is  in  any  way  connected 
with  myself?"  said  Mr.  Slope. 

"It  is  so, — certainly, — yes,  it  certainly  is  connected  with 
yourself,  Mr.  Slope." 

"Then,  my  lord,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  express  a  wish,  I 
would  prefer  that  no  discussion  on  the  subject  should  take 
place  between  us  in  the  presence  of  a  third  person." 

"Don't  alarm  yourself,  Mr.  Slope,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "no 
discussion  is  at  all  necessary.  The  bishop  merely  intends  to 
express  his  own  wishes." 

"I  merely  intend,  Mr.  Slope,  to  express  my  own  wishes, — 
no  discussion  will  be  at  all  necessary,"  said  the  bishop,  reit- 
erating his  wife's  words. 

"That  is  more,  my  lord,  than  we  any  of  us  can  be  sure  of," 
said  Mr.  Slope;  "I  cannot,  however,  force  Mrs.  Proudie  to 
leave  the  room ;  nor  can  I  refuse  to  remain  here  if  it  be  your 
lordship's  wish  that  I  should  do  so." 

"It  is  his  lordship's  wish,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"Mr.  Slope,"  began  the  bishop,  in  a  solemn,  serious  voice, 
"it  grieves  me  to  have  to  find  fault.  It  grieves  me  much  to 
have  to  find  fault  with  a  clergyman;  but  especially  so  with 
a  clergyman  in  your  position." 

"Why,  what  have  I  done  amiss,  my  lord?"  demanded  Mr. 
Slope,  boldly. 

"What  have  you  done  amiss,  Mr.  Slope?"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie,  standing  erect  before  the  culprit,  and  raising  that 
terrible  forefinger.  "Do  you  dare  to  ask  the  bishop  what 
you  have  done  amiss  ?  does  not  your  conscience " 

"Mrs.  Proudie,  pray  let  it  be  understood,  once  for  all.  that 
I  will  have  no  words  with  you." 

"Ah,  sir,  but  you  will  have  words,"  said  she;  "you  must 

499 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

have  words.  Why  have  you  had  so  many  words  with  that 
Signora  Neroni?  Why  have  you  disgraced  yourself,  you  a 
clergyman  too,  by  constantly  consorting  with  such  a  woman 
as  that, — with  a  married  woman — with  one  altogether  unfit 
for  a  clergyman's  society?" 

"At  any  rate,  I  was  introduced  to  her  in  your  drawing- 
room,"  retorted  Mr.  Slope. 

"And  shamefully  you  behaved  there,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie, 
"most  shamefully.  I  was  wrong  to  allow  you  to  remain  in 
the  house  a  day  after  what  I  then  saw.  I  should  have  insist- 
ed on  your  instant  dismissal." 

"I  have  yet  to  learn,  Mrs.  Proudie,  that  you  have  the 
power  to  insist  either  on  my  going  from  hence  or  on  my  stay- 
ing here." 

"What !"  said  the  lady ;  "I  am  not  to  have  the  privilege  of 
saying  who  shall  and  who  shall  not  frequent  my  own  draw- 
ing-room !  I  am  not  to  save  my  servants  and  dependents 
from  having  their  morals  corrupted  by  improper  conduct !  I 
am  not  to  save  my  own'daughters  from  impurity !  I  will  let 
you  see,  Mr.  Slope,  whether  I  have  the  power  or  whether  I 
have  not.  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  understand  that 
you  no  longer  fill  any  situation  about  the  bishop ;  and  as  your 
room  will  be  immediately  wanted  in  the  palace  for  another 
chaplain,  I  must  ask  you  to  provide  yourself  with  apartments 
as  soon  as  may  be  convenient  to  you." 

"My  lord,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  appealing  to  the  bishop,  and  so 
turning  his  back  completely  on  the  lady,  "will  you  permit  me 
to  ask  that  I  may  have  from  your  own  lips  any  decision  that 
you  may  have  come  to  on  this  matter?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Slope,  certainly,"  said  the  bishop ;  "that  is 
but  reasonable.  Well,  my  decision  is  that  you  had  better 
look  for  some  other  preferment.  For  the  situation  which 
you  have  lately  held  I  do  not  think  that  you  are  well  suited." 

"And  what,  my  lord,  has  been  my  fault?" 

"That  Signora  Neroni  is  one  fault,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie; 
"and  a  very  abominable  fault  she  is ;  very  abominable  and 
very  disgraceful.  Fie,  Mr.  Slope,  fie!  You  an  evangelical 
clergyman  indeed !" 

"My  lord,  I  desire  to  know  for  what  fault  I  am  turned 
out  of  your  lordship's  house." 

500 


MR.    SLOPE    BIDS    FAREWELL. 

"You  hear  what  Mrs.  Proudie  says,"  said  the  bishop. 

"When  I  publish  the  history  of  this  transaction,  my  lord, 
as  I  decidedly  shall  do  in  my  own  vindication,  I  presume  you 
will  not  wish  me  to  state  that  you  have  discarded  me  at  your 
wife's  bidding — because  she  has  objected  to  my  being  ac- 
quainted with  another  lady,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  preb- 
endaries of  the  chapter?" 

"You  may  publish  what  you  please,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie.  "But  you  will  not  be  insane  enough  to  publish  any 
of  your  doings  in  Barchester.  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
heard  of  your  kneelings  at  that  creature's  feet — that  is,  if 
she  has  any  feet — and  of  .your  constant  slobbering  over  her 
hand?  I  advise  you  to  beware,  Mr.  Slope,  of  what  you  do 
and  say.  Clergymen  have  been  unfrocked  for  less  than  what 
you  have  been  guilty  of." 

"My  lord,  if  this  goes  on  I  shall  be  obliged  to  indict  this 
woman — Mrs.  Proudie  I  mean — for  defamation  of  character." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Slope,  you  had  better  now  retire,"  said  the 
bishop.  "I  will  enclose  to  you  a  cheque  for  any  balance  that 
may  be  due  to  you ;  and,  under  the  present  circumstances,  it 
will  of  course  be  better  for  all  parties  that  you  should  leave 
the  palace  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  I  will  allow  you 
for  your  journey  back  to  London,  and  for  your  maintenance 
in  Barchester  for  a  week  from  this  date." 

"If,  however,  you  wish  to  remain  in  this  neighbourhood," 
said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "and  will  solemnly  pledge  yourself  never 
again  to  see  that  woman,  and  wnll  promise  also  to  be  more 
circumspect  in  your  conduct,  the  bishop  will  mention  your 
name  to  Mr.  Quiverful,  who  now  wants  a  curate  at  Pudding- 
dale.  The  house  is,  I  imagine,  quite  sufficient  for  your  re- 
quirements :  and  there  will  moreover  be  a  stipend  of  fifty 
pounds  a  year." 

"May  God  forgive  you,  madam,  for  the  manner  in  which 
you  have  treated  me,"  said  Mr.  Slope,  looking  at  her  with  a 
very  heavenly  look;  "and  remember  this,  madam,  that  you 
vourself  may  still  have  a  fall ;"  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
verv  worldly  look.  "As  to  the  bishop,  I  pity  him !"  And 
so  saying,  Mr.  Slope  left  the  room.  Thus  ended  the  Inti- 
macv  of  the  Bishop  of  Barchester  with  his  first  confidential 
chaplain. 

33  501 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Mrs.  Proudie  was  right  in  this ;  namely,  that  Mr.  Slope 
was  not  insane  enough  to  publish  to  the  world  any  of  his 
doings  in  Barchester.  He  did  not  trouble  his  friend  Mr. 
Towers  with  any  written  statement  of  the  iniquity  of  Mrs. 
Proudie,  or  the  imbecility  of  her  husband.  He  was  aware 
that  it  would  be  wise  in  him  to  drop  for  the  future  all  allu- 
sions to  his  doings  in  the  cathedral  city.  Soon  after  the 
interview  just  recorded,  he  left  Barchester,  shaking  the 
dust  off  his  feet  as  he  entered  the  railway  carriage ; 
and  he  gave  no  longing  lingering  look  after  the  cathed- 
ral towers,  as  the  train  hurried  him  quickly  out  of  their 
sight. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  family  of  the  Slopes  never  starve : 
they  always  fall  on  their  feet  like  cats,  and  let  them  fall  where 
they  will,  they  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  Our  Mr.  Slope 
did  so.  On  his  return  to  town  he  found  that  the  sugar- 
refiner  had  died,  and  that  his  widow  was  inconsolable :  or,  in 
other  words,  in  want  of  consolation.  Mr.  Slope  consoled 
her,  and  soon  found  himself  settled  with  much  comfort  in  the 
house  in  Baker  Street.  He  possessed  himself,  also,  before 
long,  of  a  church  in  the  vicinity  of  the  New  Road,  and  be- 
came known  to  fame  as  one  of  the  most  eloquent  preachers 
and  pious  clergymen  in  that  part  of  the  metropolis.  There 
let  us  leave  him. 

Of  the  bishop  and  his  wife  very  little  further  need  be  said. 
From  that  time  forth  nothing  material  occurred  to  interrupt 
the  even  course  of  their  domestic  harmony.  Very  speedily,  a 
further  vacancy  on  the  bench  of  bishops  gave  to  Dr.  Proudie 
the  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  which  he  at  first  so  anxiously 
longed  for.  But  by  this  time  he  had  become  a  wiser  man. 
He  did  certainly  take  his  seat,  and  occasionally  registered  a 
vote  in  favour  of  Government  views  on  ecclesiastical  matters. 
But  he  had  thoroughly  learnt  that  his  proper  sphere  of  ac- 
tion lay  in  close  contiguity  with  Mrs.  Proudie's  wardrobe. 
He  never  again  aspired  to  disobey,  or  seem  even  to  wish  for 
autocratic  diocesan  authority.  If  ever  he  thought  of  free- 
dom, he  did  so,  as  men  think  of  the  millennium,  as  of  a  good 
time  which  may  be  coming,  but  which  nobody  expects  to 
come  in  their  day.  Mrs.  Proudie  might  be  said  still  to  bloom, 
and  was,  at  any  rate,  strong ;  and  the  bishop  had  no  reason  to 

502 


THE  NEW  DEAN  AND  THE  NEW  WARDEN. 

apprehend  that  he  would  be  speedily  visited  with  the  sorrows 
of  a  widower's  life. 

He  is  still  Bishop  of  Barchester.  He  has  so  graced  that 
throne,  that  the  Government  has  been  averse  to  translate  him, 
even  to  higher  dignities.  There  may  he  remain,  under  safe 
pupilage,  till  the  new-fangled  manners  of  the  age  have  dis- 
covered him  to  be  superannuated,  and  bestowed  on  him  a 
pension.  As  for  Mrs.  Proudie,  our  prayers  for  her  are  that 
she  may  live  for  ever. 


CHAPTER   LII. 

THE   NEW    DEAN    TAKES    POSSESSION    OF   THE   DEANERY, 
AND  THE  NEW  WARDEN   OF  THE  HOSPITAL. 

MR.  HARDING  and  the  archdeacon  together  made  their 
way  to  Oxford,  and  there,  by  dint  of  cunning  argu- 
ment, they  induced  the  Master  of  Lazarus  also  to  ask  himself 
this  momentous  question :  "Why  should  not  Mr.  Arabin  be 
Dean  of  Barchester?"  He  of  course,  for  a  while  tried  his 
hand  at  persuading  Mr.  Harding  that  he  was  foolish,  over- 
scrupulous, self-willed,  and  weak-minded;  but  he  tried  in 
vain.  If  Mr.  Harding  would  not  give  way  to  Dr.  Grantly, 
it  was  not  likely  he  would  give  way  to  Dr.  Gvvynne;  more 
especially  now  that  so  admirable  a  scheme  as  that  of  induct- 
ing Mr.  Arabin  into  the  deanery  had  been  set  on  foot.  When 
the  master  found  that  his  eloquence  was  vain,  and  heard  also 
that  Mr.  Arabin  was  about  to  become  Mr.  Harding's  son-in- 
law,  he  confessed  that  he  also  would,  under  such  circum- 
stances, be  glad  to  see  his  old  friend  and  protege,  the  fellow 
of  his  college,  placed  in  the  comfortable  position  that  was 
going  a-begging. 

"It  might  be  the  means,  you  know.  Master,  of  keeping  Mr. 
Slope  out,"  said  the  archdeacon  with  grave  caution. 

"He  has  no  more  chance  of  it,"  said  the  master,  "than  our 
college  chaplain.     I  know  more  about  it  than  that." 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  been  right  in  her  surmise.  It  was  the 
Master  of  Lazarus  who  had  been  instrumental  in  represent- 
ing in  high  places  the  claims  which  Mr.  Harding  had  upon 

503 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

the  Government,  and  he  now  consented  to  use  his  best  en- 
deavours towards  getting  the  offer  transferred  to  Mr.  Ara- 
bin.  The  three  of  them  went  on  to  London  together,  and 
there  they  remained  a  week,  to  the  great  disgust  of  Mrs. 
Grantly,  and  most  probably  also  of  Mrs.  Gwynne.  The 
minister  was  out  of  town  in  one  direction,  and  his  private 
secretary  in  another.  The  clerks  who  remained  could  do 
nothing  in  such  a  matter  as  this,  and  all  was  difficulty  and 
confusion.  The  two  doctors  seemed  to  have  plenty  to  do; 
they  bustled  here  and  they  bustled  there,  and  complained  at 
their  club  in  the  evenings  that  they  had  been  driven  off  their 
legs ;  but  Mr.  Harding  had  no  occupation.  Once  or  twice 
he  suggested  that  he  might  perhaps  return  to  Barchester. 
His  request,  however,  was  peremptorily  refused,  and  he  had 
nothing  for  it  but  to  while  away  his  time  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

At  length  an  answer  from  the  great  man  came.  The  Mas- 
ter of  Lazarus  had  made  his  proposition  through  the  Bishop 
of  Belgravia.  Now  this  bishop,  though  but  newly  gifted 
with  his  diocesan  honours,  was  a  man  of  much  weight  in  the 
clerico-political  world.  He  was,  if  not  as  pious,  at  any  rate  as 
wise  as  St.  Paul,  and  had  been  with  so  much  effect  all  things 
to  all  men,  that  though  he  was  great  among  the  dons  of  Ox- 
ford, he  had  been  selected  for  the  most  favourite  seat  on  the 
bench  by  a  Whig  Prime  Minister.  To  him  Dr.  Gwynne 
had  made  known  his  wishes  and  his  arguments,  and  the 
bishop  had  made  them  known  to  the  Marquis  of  Kensington 
Gore.  The  marquis,  who  was  Lord  High  Steward  of  the 
Pantry  Board,  and  who  by  most  men  was  supposed  to  hold 
the  highest  office  out  of  the  Cabinet,  trafficked  much  in  af- 
fairs of  this  kind.  He  not  only  suggested  the  arrangement 
to  the  minister  over  a  cup  of  coffee,  standing  on  a  drawing- 
room  rug  in  Windsor  Castle,  but  he  also  favourably  men- 
tioned Mr.  Arabin's  name  in  the  ear  of  a  distinguished 
person. 

And  so  the  matter  was  arranged.  The  answer  of  the  great 
man  came,  and  Mr.  Arabin  was  made  Dean  of  Barchester. 
The  three  clergymen  who  had  come  up  to  town  on  this  im- 
portant mission  dined  together  with  great  glee  on  the  day 
on  which  the  news  reached  them.     In  a  silent,  decent,  cler- 

504 


THE  NEW  DEAN  AND  THE  NEW  WARDEN. 

ical  manner,  they  toasted  Mr.  Arabin  with  full  bumpers  of 
claret.  The  satisfaction  of  all  of  them  was  supreme.  The 
Master  of  Lazarus  had  been  successful  in  his  attempt,  and 
success  is  dear  to  us  all.  The  archdeacon  had  trampled  upon 
Mr.  Slope,  and  had  lifted  to  high  honours  the  young  clergy- 
man whom  he  had  induced  to  quit  the  retirement  and  com- 
fort of  the  university.  So  at  least  the  archdeacon  thought ; 
though,  to  speak  sooth,  not  he,  but  circumstances,  had 
trampled  on  Mr.  Slope.  But  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Hard- 
ing was,  of  all,  perhaps,  the  most  complete.  He  laid  aside 
his  usual  melancholy  manner,  and  brought  forth  little  quiet 
jokes  from  the  inmost  mirth  of  his  heart ;  he  poked  his  fun 
at  the  archdeacon  about  Mr.  Slope's  marriage,  and  quizzed 
him  for  his  improper  love  for  Mrs.  Proudie.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  they  all  returned  to  Barchester. 

It  was  arranged  that  Mr.  Arabin  should  know  nothing  of 
what  had  been  done  till  he  received  the  minister's  letter  from 
the  hands  of  his  embryo  father-in-law.  In  order  that  no 
time  might  be  lost,  a  message  had  been  sent  to  him  by  the 
preceding  night's  post,  begging  him  to  be  at  the  deanery  at 
the  hour  that  the  train  from  London  arrived.  There  was 
nothing  in  this  which  surprised  Mr.  Arabin.  It  had  some- 
how got  about  through  all  Barchester  that  Mr.  Harding  was 
the  new  dean,  and  all  Barchester  was  prepared  to  welcome 
him  with  pealing  bells  and  full  hearts.  Mr.  Slope  had  cer- 
tainly had  a  party ;  there  had  certainly  been  those  in  Barches- 
ter who  were  prepared  to  congratulate  him  on  his  promotion 
with  assumed  sincerity,  but  even  his  own  party  was  not 
broken-hearted  by  his  failure.  The  inhabitants  of  the  city, 
even  the  high-souled  ecstatic  young  ladies  of  thirty-five,  had 
begun  to  comprehend  that  their  welfare,  and  the  welfare  of 
the  place,  was  connected  in  some  mysterious  manner  with 
daily  chants  and  bi-weekly  anthems.  The  expenditure  of  the 
palace  had  not  added  much  to  the  popularity  of  the  bishop's 
side  of  the  question ;  and,  on  the  whole,  there  was  a  strong 
reaction.  When  it  became  known  to  all  the  world  that  Mr. 
Harding  was  to  be  the  new  dean,  all  the  world  rejoiced 
heartily. 

Mr.  Arabin,  we  have  said,  was  not  surprised  at  the  sum- 
mons which  called  him  to  the  deanery.     He  had  not  as  yet 

505 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

seen  Mr.  Harding  since  Eleanor  had  accepted  him,  nor  had 
he  seen  him  since  he  had  learnt  his  future  father-in-law's 
preferment.  There  was  nothing  more  natural,  more  neces- 
sary, than  that  they  should  meet  each  other  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  Mr.  Arabin  was  waiting  in  the  deanery 
parlour  when  Mr.  Harding  and  Dr.  Grantly  were  driven  up 
from  the  station. 

There  was  some  excitement  in  the  bosoms  of  them  all,  as 
they  met  and  shook  hands ;  by  far  too  much  to  enable  either 
of  them  to  begin  his  story  and  tell  it  in  a  proper,  equable 
style  of  narrative,  Mr.  Harding  was  some  minutes  quite 
dumbfounded,  and  Mr.  Arabin  could  only  talk  in  short,  spas- 
modic sentences  about  his  love  and  good  fortune.  He 
slipped  in,  as  best  he  could,  some  sort  of  congratulation 
about  the  deanship,  and  then  went  on  with  his  hopes  and 
fears, — hopes  that  he  might  be  received  as  a  son,  and  fears 
that  he  hardly  deserved  such  good  fortune.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  dean ;  it  was  the  most  thoroughly  satisfactory  ap- 
pointment, he  said,  of  which  he  had  ever  heard. 

"But!  but!  but "  said  Mr.  Harding;  and  then  failing 

to  get  any  further,  he  looked  imploringly  at  the  archdeacon. 

"The  truth  is,  Arabin,"  said  the  doctor,  "that,  after  all, 
you  are  not  destined  to  be  son-in-law  to  a  dean.  Nor  am  I 
either :  more's  the  pity." 

Mr.  Arabin  looked  at  him  for  explanation.  "Is  not  Mr. 
Harding  to  be  the  new  dean?" 

"It  appears  not,"  said  the  archdeacon.  Mr.  Arabin's  face 
fell  a  little,  and  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  It  was 
plainly  to  be  seen  from  them  both  that  there  was  no  cause 
of  unhappiness  in  the  matter,  at  least  not  of  unhappiness  to 
them ;  but  there  was  as  yet  no  elucidation  of  the  mystery. 

"Think  how  old  I  am,"   said   Mr.   Harding,   imploringly. 

"Fiddlestick !"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  it  won't  make  a  young  man  of 
me,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"And  who  is  to  be  dean?"  asked  Mr.  Arabin. 

"Yes,  that's  the  question,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "Come, 
Mr.  Precentor,  since  you  obstinately  refuse  to  be  anything 
else,  let  us  know  who  is  to  be  the  man.  He  has  got  the 
nomination  in  his  pocket." 

506 


THE  NEW  DEAN  AND  THE  NEW  WARDEN. 

With  eyes  brim  full  of  tears,  Mr.  Harding  pulled  out  the 
letter  and  handed  it  to  his  future  son-in-law.  He  tried  to 
make  a  little  speech,  but  failed  altogether.  Having  given  up 
the  document,  he  turned  round  to  the  wall,  feigning  to  blow 
his  nose,  and  then  sat  himself  down  on  the  old  dean's  dingy 
horse-hair  sofa.  And  here  we  find  it  necessary  to  bring  our 
account  of  the  interview  to  an  end. 

Nor  can  we  pretend  to  describe  the  rapture  with  which 
Mr.  Harding  was  received  by  his  daughter.  She  wept  with 
grief  and  wept  with  joy;  with  grief  that  her  father  should, 
in  his  old  age,  still  be  without  that  rank  and  worldly  posi- 
tion which,  according  to  her  ideas,  he  had  so  well  earned ; 
and  with  joy  in  that  he,  her  darling  father,  should  have  be- 
stowed on  that  other  dear  one  the  good  things  of  which  he 
himself  would  not  open  his  hand  to  take  possession.  And 
here  Mr.  Harding  again  showed  his  weakness.  In  the  melee 
of  this  exposal  of  their  loves  and  reciprocal  affection,  he 
found  himself  unable  to  resist  the  entreaties  of  all  parties  that 
the  lodgings  in  the  High  Street  should  be  given  up.  Eleanor 
would  not  live  in  the  deanery,  she  said,  unless  her  father 
lived  there  also.  Mr.  Arabin  would  not  be  dean,  unless  Mr. 
Harding  would  be  co-dean  with  him.  The  archdeacon  de- 
clared that  his  father-in-law  should  not  have  his  own  way  in 
everything,  and  Mrs.  Grantly  carried  him  off  to  Plumstead, 
that  he  might  remain  there  till  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arabin  were  in 
a  state  to  receive  him  in  their  own  mansion. 

Pressed  by  such  arguments  as  these,  what  could  a  weak 
old  man  do  but  yield  ? 

But  there  was  yet  another  task  which  it  behoved  Mr.  Hard- 
ing to  do  before  he  could  allow  himself  to  be  at  rest.  Little 
has  been  said  in  these  pages  of  the  state  of  those  remaining 
old  men  who  had  lived  under  his  sway  at  the  hospital.  But 
not  on  this  account  must  it  be  presumed  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten them,  or  that  in  their  state  of  anarchy  and  in  their  want 
of  due  government  he  had  omitted  to  visit  them.  He  visited 
them  constantly,  and  had  latterly  given  them  to  understand 
that  they  would  soon  be  required  to  subscribe  their  adher- 
ence to  a  new  master.  There  were  now  but  five  of  them,  one 
of  them  having  been  but  quite  lately  carried  to  his  rest, — 
but  five  of  the  full  number,  which  had  hitherto  been  twelve, 

507 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

and  which  was  now  to  be  raised  to  twenty-four,  including 
women.  Of  these  old  Bunce,  who  for  many  years  had  been 
the  favourite  of  the  late  warden,  was  one;  and  Abel  Handy, 
who  had  been  the  humble  means  of  driving  that  warden  from 
his  home,  was  another. 

Mr.  Harding  now  resolved  that  he  himself  would  introduce 
the  new  warden  to  the  hospital.  He  felt  that  many  circum- 
stances might  conspire  to  make  the  men  receive  Mr.  Quiver- 
ful with  aversion  and  disrespect ;  he  felt  also  that  Mr. 
Quiverful  might  himself  feel  some  qualms  of  conscience  if 
he  entered  the  hospital  with  an  idea  that  he  did  so  in  hos- 
tility to  his  predecessor.  Mr.  Harding  therefore  determined 
to  walk  in,  arm  in  arm  with  Mr.  Quiverful,  and  to  ask  from 
these  men  their  respectful  obedience  to  their  new  master. 

On  returning  to  Barchester,  he  found  that  Mr.  Quiverful 
had  not  yet  slept  in  the  hospital  house,  or  entered  on  his  new 
duties.  He  accordingly  made  known  to  that  gentleman  his 
wishes,  and  his  proposition  was  ndt  rejected. 

It  was  a  bright  clear  morning,  though  in  November,  that 
Mr.  Harding  and  Mr.  Quiverful,  arm  in  arm,  walked  through 
the  hospital  gate.  It  was  one  trait  in  our  old  friend's  char- 
acter that  he  did  nothing  with  parade.  He  omitted,  even  in 
the  more  important  doings  of  his  life,  that  sort  of  parade  by 
which  most  of  us  deem  it  necessary  to  grace  our  important 
doings.  We  have  housewarmings,  christenings,  and  gala 
days;  we  keep,  if  not  our  own  birthdays,  those  of  our  chil- 
dren ;  we  are  apt  to  fuss  ourselves  if  called  upon  to  change 
our  residences,  and  have,  almost  all  of  us,  our  little  state 
occasions.  Mr.  Harding  had  no  state  occasions.  When  he 
left  his  old  house,  he  went  forth  from  it  with  the  same  quiet 
composure  as  though  he  were  merely  taking  his  daily  walk; 
and  now  that  he  re-entered  it  with  another  warden  under  his 
wing,  he  did  so  with  the  same  quiet  step  and  calm  demeanour. 
He  was  a  little  less  upright  than  he  had  been  five  years,  nay, 
it  was  now  nearly  six  years  ago ;  he  walked  perhaps  a  little 
slower ;  his  footfall  was  perhaps  a  thought  less  firm ;  other- 
wise one  might  have  said  that  he  was  merely  returning  with 
a  friend  under  his  arm. 

This  friendliness  was  everything  to  Mr.  Quiverful.  To 
him,  even  in  his  poverty,  the  thought  that  he  was  supplant- 

508 


THE  NEW  DEAN  AND  THE  NEW  WARDEN. 

ing  a  brother  clergyman  so  kind  and  courteous  as  Mr.  Hard- 
ing, had  been  very  bitter.  Under  his  circumstances  it  had 
been  impossible  for  him  to  refuse  the  proffered  boon ;  he 
could  not  reject  the  bread  that  was  offered  to  his  children,  or 
refuse  to  ease  the  heavy  burden  that  had  so  long  oppressed 
'that  poor  wife  of  his ;  nevertheless,  it  had  been  very  griev- 
ous to  him  to  think  that  in  going  to  the  hospital  he  might 
encounter  the  ill  will  of  his  brethren  in  the  diocese.  All  this 
Mr.  Harding  had  fully  comprehended.  It  was  for  such  feel- 
ings as  these,  for  the  nice  comprehension  of  such  motives, 
that  his  heart  and  intellect  were  peculiarly  fitted.  In  most 
matters  of  worldly  import  the  archdeacon  set  down  his  father- 
in-law  as  little  better  than  a  fool.  And  perhaps  he  was 
right.  But  in  some  other  matters,  equally  important  if  they 
be  rightly  judged,  Mr.  Harding,  had  he  been  so  minded, 
might  with  as  much  propriety  have  set  down  his  son-in-law 
for  a  fool.  Few  men,  however,  are  constituted  as  was  Mr. 
Harding.  He  had  that  ifice  appreciation  of  the  feelings  of 
others  which  belongs  of  right  exclusively  to  women. 

Arm  in  arm  they  walked  into  the  inner  quadrangle  of  the 
building,  and  there  the  five  old  men  met  them.  Mr.  Hard- 
ing shook  hands  with  them  all,  and  then  Mr.  Quiverful  did 
the  same.  With  Bunce  Mr.  Harding  shook  hands  twice,  and 
Mr.  Quiverful  was  about  to  repeat  the  same  ceremony,  but 
the  old  man  gave  him  no  encouragement. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  at  last  you' have  a  new  war- 
den," said  Mr.  Harding  in  a  very  cheery  voice. 

"We  be  very  old  for  any  change,"  said  one  of  them ;  "but 
we  do  suppose  it  be  all  for  the  best." 

"Certainly — certainly  it  is  for  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 
"You  will  again  have  a  clergyman  of  your  own  church  under 
the  same  roof  with  you,  and  a  very  excellent  clergyman  you 
will  have.  It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  know  that  so 
good  a  man  is  coming  to  take  care  of  you,  and  that  it  is  no 
stranger,  but  a  friend  of  my  own,  who  will  allow  me  from 
time  to  time  to  come  in  and  see  you." 

"We  be  very  thankful  to  your  reverence,"  said  another  of 
them. 

"I  need  not  tell  you,  my  good  friends,"  said  Mr.  Quiverful, 
"how  extremely  grateful  I  am  to  Mr.  Harding  for  his  kind- 

509 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ness  to  me, — I  must  say  his  uncalled  for,  unexpected  kind- 
ness." 

"He  be  always  very  kind,"  said  a  third. 

"What  I  can  do  to  fill  the  void  which  he  left  here,  I  will 
do.     For  your  sake  and  my  own  I  will  do  so,  and  especially 
for  his  sake.     But  to  you  who  have  known  him,  I  can  never' 
be  the  same  well-loved  friend  and  father  that  he  has  been." 

"No,  sir,  no,"  said  old  Bunce,  who  hitherto  had  held  his 
peace,  "no  one  can  be  that.  Not  if  the  new  bishop  sent  a 
hangel  to  us  out  of  heaven.  We  doesn't  doubt  you'll  do  your 
best,  sir,  but  you'll  not  be  like  the  old  master ;  not  to  us  old 
ones." 

"Fie,  Bunce,  fie !  how  dare  you  talk  in  that  way  ?"  said  Mr. 
Harding;  but  as  he  scolded  the  old  man  he  still  held  him  by 
his  arm,  and  pressed  it  with  warm  affection. 

There  was  no  getting  up  any  enthusiasm  in  the  matter. 
How  could  five  old  men  tottering  away  to  their  final  resting- 
place  be  enthusiastic  on  the  reception  of  a  stranger?  What 
could  Mr.  Quiverful  be  to  them,  or  they  to  Mr.  Quiverful? 
Had  Mr.  Harding  indeed  come  back  to  them,  some  last  flick- 
er of  joyous  light  might  have  shone  forth  on  their  aged 
cheeks ;  but  it  was  in  vain  to  bid  them  rejoice  because  Mr. 
Quiverful  was  about  to  move  his  fourteen  children  from 
Puddingdale  into  the  hospital  house.  In  reality  they  did  no 
doubt  receive  advantage,  spiritual  as  well  as  corporal ;  but 
this  they  could  neither  anticipate  nor  acknowledge. 

It  was  a  dull  affair  enough,  this  introduction  of  Mr.  Quiv- 
erful ;  but  still  it  had  its  effect.  The  good  which  Mr.  Hard- 
ing intended  did  not  fall  to  the  ground.  All  the  Barchester 
world,  including  the  five  old  bedesmen,  treated  Mr.  Quiver- 
ful with  the  more  respect,  because  Mr.  Harding  had  thus 
walked  in  arm  in  arm  with  him,  on  his  first  entrance  to  his 
duties. 

And  here  in  their  new  abode  we  will  leave  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Quiverful  and  their  fourteen  children.  May  they  enjoy  the 
good  things  which  Providence  has  at  length  given  to  them! 


51Q 


CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  end  of  a  novel,  like  the  end  of  a  children's  dinner- 
party, must  be  made  up  of  sweetmeats  and  sugar- 
plums. There  is  now  nothing  else  to  be  told  but  the  gala 
doings  of  Mr.  Arabin's  marriage,  nothing  more  to  be  de- 
scribed than  the  wedding  dresses,  no  further  dialogue  to  be 
recorded  than  that  which  took  place  between  the  archdeacon 
who  married  them,  and  Mr.  Arabin  and  Eleanor  who  were 
married.  "Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded  wife," 
and  "wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded  husband,  to  live 
together  according  to  God's  ordinance?"  Mr.  Arabin  and 
Eleanor  each  answered,  'T  will."  We  have  no  doubt  that 
they  will  keep  their  promises ;  the  more  especially  as  the 
Signora  Neroni  had  left  Barchester  before  the  ceremony  was 
performed. 

Mrs.  Bold  had  been  somewhat  more  than  two  years  a 
widow  before  she  was  married  to  her  second  husband,  and 
little  Johnnie  was  then  able  with  due  assistance  to  walk  on 
his  own  legs  into  the  drawing-room  to  receive  the  salutations 
of  the  assembled  guests.  Mr.  Harding  gave  away  the  bride, 
the  archdeacon  performed  the  service,  and  the  two  Miss 
Grantlys,  who  were  joined  in  their  labours  by  other  young 
ladies  of  the  neighbourhood,  performed  the  duties  of  brides- 
maids with  equal  diligence  and  grace.  Mrs.  Grantly  super- 
intended the  breakfast  and  bouquets,  and  Mary  Bold  distrib- 
uted the  cards  and  cake.  The  archdeacon's  three  sons  had 
also  come  home  for  the  occasion.  The  eldest  was  great  with 
learning,  being  regarded  by  all  who  knew  him  as  a  certain 
future  double  first.  The  second,  however,  bore  the  palm  on 
this  occasion,  being  resplendent  in  a  new  uniform.  The  third 
was  just  entering  the  university,  and  was  probably  the  proud- 
est of  the  three. 

But  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  the  whole  occasion  was 
the  excessive  liberality  of  the  archdeacon.  He  literally  made 
presents  to  everybody.  As  Mr.  Arabin  had  already  moved 
out  of  the  parsonage  of  St.  Ewold's,  that  scheme  of  elongat- 

511 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

ing  the  dining-room  was  of  course  abandoned ;  but  he  would 
have  refurnished  the  whole  deanery  had  he  been  allowed. 
He  sent  down  a  magnificent  piano  by  Erard,  gave  Mr.  Ara- 
bin  a  cob  which  any  dean  in  the  land  might  have  been  proud 
to  bestride,  and  made  a  special  present  to  Eleanor  of  a  new 
pony  chair  that  had  gained  a  prize  in  the  Exhibition.  Nor 
did  he  even  stay  his  hand  here ;  he  bought  a  set  of  cameos 
for  his  wife,  and  a  sapphire  bracelet  for  Miss  Bold ;  showered 
pearls  and  workboxes  on  his  daughters,  and  to  each  of  his 
sons  he  presented  a  cheque  for  20/.  On  Mr.  Harding  he  be- 
stowed a  magnificent  violoncello  with  all  the  new-fashioned 
arrangements  and  expensive  additions,  which,  on  account  of 
these  novelties,  that  gentleman  could  never  use  with  satisfac- 
tion to  his  audience  or  pleasure  to  himself. 

Those  who  knew  the  archdeacon  well,  perfectly  understood 
the  cause  of  his  extravagance.  'Twas  thus  that  he  sang  his 
song  of  triumph  over  Mr.  Slope.  This  was  his  paean,  his 
hymn  of  thanksgiving,  his  loud  oration.  He  had  girded  him- 
self with  his  sword,  and  gone  forth  to  the  war ;  now  he  was 
returning  from  the  field  laden  with  the  spoils  of  the  foe. 
The  cob  and  the  cameos,  the  violoncello  and  the  pianoforte, 
were  all  as  it  were  trophies  reft  from  the  tent  of  his  now 
conquered  enemy. 

The  Arabins  after  their  marriage  went  abroad  for  a  couple 
of  months,  according  to  the  custom  in  such  matters  now  duly 
established,  and  then  commenced  their  deanery  life  under 
good  auspices.  And  nothing  can  be  more  pleasant  than  the 
present  arrangement  of  ecclesiastical  aflfairs  in  Barchester, 
The  titular  bishop  never  interfered,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  not 
often.  Her  sphere  is  more  extended,  more  noble,  and  more 
suited  to  her  ambition  than  that  of  a  cathedral  city.  As  long 
as  she  can  do  what  she  pleases  with  the  diocese,  she  is  will- 
ing to  leave  the  dean  and  chapter  to  themselves.  Mr.  Slope 
tried  his  hand  at  subverting  the  old-established  customs  of 
the  close,  and  from  his  failure  she  has  learnt  experience.  The 
burly  chancellor  and  the  meagre  little  prebendary  are  not 
teased  by  any  application  respecting  Sabbath-day  schools, 
the  dean  is  left  to  his  own  dominions,  and  the  intercourse  be- 
tween Mrs.  Proudie  and  Mrs.  Arabin  is  confined  to  a  yearly 
dinner  given  by  each  to  the  other.     At  these  dinners  Dr. 

512 


CONCLUSION. 

Grantly  will  not  take  a  part ;  but  he  never  fails  to  ask  for  and 
receive  a  full  account  of  all  that  Mrs.  Proudie  either  does  or 
says. 

His  ecclesiastical  authority  has  been  greatly  shorn  since  the 
palmy  days  in  which  he  reigned  supreme  as  mayor  of  the 
palace  to  his  father,  but  nevertheless  such  authority  as  is  now 
left  to  him  he  can  enjoy  without  interference.  He  can  walk 
down  the  High  Street  of  Barchester  without  feeling  that 
those  who  see  him  are  comparing  his  claims  with  those  of 
Mr.  Slope.  The  intercourse  between  Plumstead  and  the 
deanery  is  of  the  most  constant  and  familiar  description. 
Since  Eleanor  has  been  married  to  a  clergyman,  and  espe- 
cially to  a  dignitary  of  the  church,  Mrs.  Grantly  has  found 
many  more  points  of  sympathy  with  her  sister;  and  on  a 
coming  occasion,  which  is  much  looked  forward  to  by  all 
parties,  she  intends  to  spend  a  month  or  two  at  the  deanery. 
She  never  thought  of  spending  a  month  in  Barchester  when 
little  Johnny  Bold  was  born ! 

The  two  sisters  do  not  quite  agree  on  matters  of  church 
doctrine,  though  their  differences  are  of  the  most  amicable 
description.  Mr.  Arabin's  church  is  two  degrees  higher  than 
that  of  Mrs.  Grantly.  This  may  seem  strange  to  those  who 
will  remember  that  Eleanor  was  once  accused  of  partiality 
to  Mr.  Slope ;  but  it  is  no  less  the  fact.  She  likes  her  hus- 
band's silken  vest,  she  likes  his  adherence  to  the  rubric,  she 
specially  likes  the  eloquent  philosophy  of  his  sermons,  and 
she  likes  the  red  letters  in  her  own  prayer-book.  It  must  not 
be  presumed  that  she  has  a  taste  for  candles,  or  that  she  is  at 
all  astray  about  the  real  presence ;  but  she  has  an  inkling  that 
way.  She  sent  a  handsome  subscription  towards  certain  very 
heavy  ecclesiastical  legal  expenses  which  have  lately  been 
incurred  in  Bath,  her  name  of  course  not  appearing;  she  as- 
sumes a  smile  of  gentle  ridicule  when  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury is  named,  and  she  has  put  up  a  memorial  window  in 
the  cathedral. 

Mrs.  Grantly,  who  belongs  to  the  high  and  dry  church, 
the  high  church  as  it  was  some  fifty  years  since,  before  tracts 
were  written  and  young  clergymen  took  upon  themselves  the 
highly  meritorious  duty  of  cleaning  churches,  rather  laughs 
at  her  sister.     She   shrugs   her  shoulders,   and   tells    Miss 

513 


BARCHESTER   TOWERS. 

Thorne  that  she  supposes  Eleanor  will  have  an  oratory  in  the 
deanery  before  she  has  done.  But  she  is  not  on  that  account 
a  whit  displeased.  A  few  high  church  vagaries  do  not,  she 
thinks,  sit  amiss  on  the  shoulders  of  a  young  dean's  wife. 
It  shows  at  any  rate  that  her  heart  is  in  the  subject;  and  it 
shows  moreover  that  she  is  removed,  wide  as  the  poles  asun- 
der, from  that  cesspool  of  abomination  in  which  it  was  once 
suspected  that  she  would  wallow  and  grovel.  Anathema 
maranatha!  Let  anything  else  be  held  as  blessed,  so  that 
that  be  well  cursed.  Welcome  kneelings  and  bowings,  wel- 
come matins  and  complines,  welcome  bell,  book,  and  candle, 
so  that  Mr.  Slope's  dirty  surplices  and  ceremonial  Sabbaths 
be  held  in  due  execration ! 

If  it  be  essentially  and  absolutely  necessary  to  choose  be- 
tween the  two,  we  are  inclined  to  agree  with  Mrs.  Grantly 
that  the  bell,  book,  and  candle  are  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two. 
Let  it  however  be  understood  that  no  such  necessity  is  ad- 
mitted in  these  pages. 

Dr.  Arabin  (we  suppose  he  must  have  become  a  doctor 
when  he  became  a  dean)  is  more  moderate  and  less  outspoken 
on  doctrinal  points  than  his  wife,  as  indeed  in  his  station  it 
behoves  him  to  be.  He  is  a  studious,  thoughtful,  hard- 
working man.  He  lives  constantly  at  the  deanery,  and 
preaches  nearly  every  Sunday.  His  time  is  spent  in  sifting 
and  editing  old  ecclesiastical  literature,  and  in  producing  the 
same  articles  new.  At  Oxford  he  is  generally  regarded  as 
the  most  promising  clerical  ornament  of  the  age.  He  and 
his  wife  live  together  in  perfect  mutual  confidence.  There 
is  but  one  secret  in  her  bosom  which  he  has  not  shared.  He 
has  never  yet  learned  how  Mr.  Slope  had  his  ears  boxed. 

The  Stanhopes  soon  found  that  Mr.  Slope's  power  need 
no  longer  operate  to  keep  them  from  the  delights  of  their 
Italian  villa.  Before  Eleanor's  marriage  they  had  all  mi- 
grated back  to  the  shores  of  Como.  They  had  not  been  re- 
settled long  before  the  signora  received  from  Mrs.  Arabin  a 
very  pretty  though  short  epistle,  in  which  she  was  informed 
of  the  fate  of  the  writer.  This  letter  was  answered  by  an- 
other, bright,  charming,  and  witty,  as  the  signora's  letters  al- 
ways were ;  and  so  ended  the  friendship  between  Eleanor  and 
the  Stanhopes. 

514 


CONCLUSION. 

One  word  of  Mr.  Harding,  and  we  have  done. 

He  is  still  Precentor  of  Barchester,  and  still  pastor  of  the 
little  church  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  In  spite  of  what  he  has  so 
often  said  himself,  he  is  not  even  yet  an  old  man.  He  does 
such  duties  as  fall  to  his  lot  well  and  conscientiously,  and  is 
thankful  that  he  has  never  been  tempted  to  assume  others 
for  which  he  might  be  less  fitted. 

The  Author  now  leaves  him  in  the  hands  of  his  readers ; 
not  as  a  hero,  not  as  a  man  to  be  admired  and  talked  of, 
not  as  a  man  who  should  be  toasted  at  public  dinners  and 
spoken  of  with  conventional  absurdity  as  a  perfect  divine, 
but  as  a  good  man  without  guile,  believing  humbly  in  the  re- 
ligion which  he  has  striven  to  teach,  and  guided  by  the  pre- 
cepts which  he  has  striven  to  learn. 


THE   END, 


515 


53 


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